“I’m afraid I can’t.”
“Why?”
“He wont let me.”
“What is he to you?”
“Nothing, but I’m afraid of him. He’s so strong.”
“He’s a big mush, little Emily—a woman-beater, a peddler of opium—a Fink, if you know what that means.”
The girl pulled her dress down to the tops of her broken shoes. She twisted, glanced up, smiled faintly, and blanched as the Dropper thrust his head into the room.
“What are you tryin’ to pull off?” he asked.
Fay stared over the girl’s cringing shoulder. His steel-blue eyes locked with the brute’s. They burned and blazed into a sodden brain. The Dropper leered, said, “Oh, all right, cul,” and went back to the smokers around the lay-out tray.
“Quick, Emily! Make up your mind. Can I come for you to-morrow night? I owe it to your old man. We’ll go East, and this woman I know will take care of you. I hate the coppers, and I’m out to collect from the world. They sent me away to Rockglen—dead, bang wrong! They gave me life and fifteen years. I didn’t serve fifteen weeks!”