"And White-Eye, here, seen him first, when he crawled out of that rig. If we'd 'a' gone up, instead of standin' here lettin' our feet git cold—"
"He must 'a' had his roll with him," said Pino, one of White-Eye's companions and incidentally a member of that inglorious legion, "The Men Who Can't Come Back."
"'T ain't his roll I want," said White-Eye.
"Too dam' bad about you not wantin' his roll. Any time—"
"Any time you git The Spider's roll, you got to git him," asserted another member of this nocturnal quartette, a man whose right arm and shoulder sagged queerly.
"The Spider ain't no kid, neither,"—and White-Eye paused at the dimly lighted stairway entrance.
The man with the deformed shoulder cursed White-Eye. The others laughed.
"Let's go git a drink—and then we'll have a talk with Pony. Come on, Steve."
They turned and drifted on up the street. Presently they were back at the stairway entrance. "Pony won't stand for no rough stuff," advised White-Eye as they turned and climbed the stair. "I'll do the talkin'."
"I reckon he'll stand for anything we hand him," said Pino. "Fancy clothes don't cut any figure with me."