“Pardon me, but I notice you carry a club. Dalton will undoubtedly have a revolver, and he’s likely to be ugly enough to attempt to use it,” explained Mr. Seaton, apprehensively. “May I ask if you have a pistol, too?”
“I always carry all the tools I need,” answered Jim Hunter. “I don’t gen’rally ’low any man to pull a gun on me, though. Sometimes I’m quicker’n I gen’rally look.”
There was an air of quiet, forceful reserve about this Florida policeman that made Powell Seaton feel more confident that the business in hand would not be defeated for lack of preparation. They made their way quickly to the hotel.
Anson Dalton and his soft-voiced companion were still at table, though evidently near the end of their meal.
Hank Butts, at a signal from his captain, had left the table. Hank had donned his rain-coat again, and was now waiting in the corridor leading to the stairs, in case Dalton should pass that way.
A moment later Joe left the table, stepping through the office and out onto the porch.
The Table Struck Hunter Amidships.