Farley shrugged his shoulders as though the matter was of minor consequence.
“What if they do?” he asked. “I’ve given the cops the slip before. I’m ready to do it again. But they won’t get here. Not those blundering flat feet! I’m not thinking about them. I’ve got other ideas on my chest.”
“Well, I’m glad of that,” said Homer, with an expression of relief. “I’ve been worried, Farley, ever since I knew they were after me.
“If they ever got me, they’d lay the killing of the old man on me, sure!”
“Look here, Homer,” declared Farley. “I’m going to give you something to worry about. But I want you to buck up. Get that? I don’t like a guy that’s yellow. You’re going to get some nerve, or I’ll be through with you.”
“Don’t say that, Farley!” pleaded Homer. “Don’t say that! I’m not yellow. But this thing has got my goat, the way it’s broken against us.”
“Hank” Farley was a lone wolf of the underworld; a man who came and went without molestation. He ridiculed police and ignored mobsters.
No one knew his business — except when he required henchmen — which was seldom.
“So you think they’ll trace you, eh?” questioned Farley. “Well, when they do, you’ll be plenty of distance away from here.
“I’m referring to the coppers, now. We’re a hundred jumps ahead of them. But we’re not going to blow yet — not by a long sight.