"Can't you stop that?" Pete asked. "It kinda gets on a guy's nerves after a while. If it means so much to you to have that dog around, why don't you just whistle?"
"I don't feel like whistling," Marc said irritably. "I mean George isn't a dog. He's ... a ..." He glanced over the edge of the cliff, and his legs suddenly turned to sawdust. Yards and yards of nothing at all stretched out endlessly downward. He turned pleadingly to Pete. "Now, listen to reason, Pete. I don't want to commit suicide. That was all a mistake...."
"You told me not to listen when you started talkin' like that," Pete said doggedly. "I gotta do the honest thing, Mr. Pillsworth. I gotta bump you off."
"Do you have to be so honest?" Marc asked desperately. "Don't you want to get ahead in your chosen profession? Haven't you any ambition at all? A good crook would automatically go back on his word, just as a matter of principle. Think of your future, Pete. Where's Marge? She'll tell you."
Pete shook his head. "Marge is takin' it easy back at the lodge. She says we're goin' straight, and I'm to do exactly like you said." He stepped back and motioned toward the edge of the cliff with his gun. "Now, why don't you save us both a lot of trouble and just step off that there cliff? That way, I won't have to shoot you off. I'm goin' to count three, and if you ain't jumped yet, I'll shoot."
"No, Pete!" Marc cried. "No! You don't understan...."
"One."
Pete took a step forward and Marc edged back a little. He didn't dare look behind him. The edge of the cliff was only inches away.
"Two."
Pete advanced again, and Marc nervously sidled to the left. Then a look of hopelessness swept over his face. Closing his eyes, he turned and faced the cliff. Waiting for the final, fatal number, his body was tense as a steel spring.