"Better hold a civil tongue in your head, old fellow," he threatened, "if you know what's best for you."
Orn lifted one great shoulder.
"Ye ain't got nothin' on me, Burnett," he snarled defiantly, "but I know ye wouldn't be comin' 'round here if ye didn't have somethin' to come fer."
The warden shoved his grim face so close to the speaker's that he drew back, intimidated.
"Sure, I come for something," snorted Burnett, viciously.
"Then peel it off," answered Skinner, deep in his throat. "I air listenin'."
He was bending so far back now that his shaggy head rested against the shanty boards. Burnett was piercing him with a strange, mesmeric gaze.
"Where's Andy Bishop?" boomed like thunder from the warden.
That name, though he knew his questioner's errand, so suddenly falling on Orn's ears, congealed his blood and knotted his muscles with fear.
"Andy Bishop?" he echoed irresolutely. "Andy Bishop? Who air Andy Bishop?"