My client’s face promptly showed the color of a ripe damson. He tried to say something and merely clucked. After a struggle he managed to control his temper and his voice. He leaned forward and clutched my knees. He spoke low, for there were other passengers near, but the rasp in his tones made up for any lack of emphasis.
“My name is Peter Dragg. If you have never heard of me, ask somebody about me. Ask any one between Buffalo Hump and Cour d’Alene. I’ve had a lot of practice in doing things to men who have got in my way. What I’ll do to you if you don’t back up will put red rings around the moon.”
“Well, then, consider I’m discharged!”
“From what?”
“From my position as your lawyer.”
“I haven’t hired you.”
“Then suppose you cast off those grappling-hooks,” I suggested, for his clutch on my knees hurt my flesh and my feelings. When he did not let go, I reached down slowly, grabbed his hands and began to pry.
Not a man about us noticed what was going on—the newspaper that I had dropped covered our hands. It was tense and silent testing out which was the better man in that clinch. He had a handsome little grip of his own, I’ll admit, but I had diver’s hooks at the ends of my arms and I bested him.
“I quit!” he growled, after a time. “Leave go!”
“Listen,” said I. “I’m not a lawyer.”