“I’ll do it ch-cheaper, so ’elp me!” said Tommy, pounding down the empty bottle to mark emphasis.
“Yank that drunken hog out o’ there, MacLeod!” roared Britt, after a preface of horrible oaths. And when Tommy stood before him, swaying limply in the boss’s clutch, he cuffed him repeatedly, first with one hand, then with the other. The smile on the man’s face became a sickly grimace, but he did not whimper.
“’Spected kickin’,” he murmured. “Jus’ soon be cuffed.” He held up the empty bottle that he still clung to desperately. “Want to ’splain ’bout one drink—” he began. But Britt wrenched the bottle from his hand, raised it as though to beat out Tommy’s brains, and, relenting, smashed it into a corner.
“So you’ve laid there and listened to our private business,” he said, malevolently. “You’ve heard more than is good for you, Eye.”
“Didn’t hear nossin’,” protested Tommy. “Was thinkin’ up speech. Jus’ heard him say he wouldn’t marry—marry—”
“Marry who?”
“‘Queen of Sheby,’ says he, with all her di’monds. I’ll marry her. I’ll settle down wiz Queen of Sheby.”
“He’s too drunk to know anything,” said MacLeod. “Open the door, Mr. Britt, and I’ll toss him out.”
And he flung the soggy Tommy out on the carpet of pine-needles with as little consideration as though he were a bag of oats.