“Who are you?” the other demanded with sudden suspicion.
“A striker. It just happens you drove my team, that's all. No; don't move for a gun.” (As Blanchard half reached toward his hip pocket.) “I ain't startin' anythin' here. But I just want to tell you something.”
“Be quick, then.”
Blanchard lifted one foot to step into the machine.
“Sure,” Billy went on without any diminution of his exasperating slowness. “What I want to tell you is that I'm after you. Not now, when the strike's on, but some time later I'm goin' to get you an' give you the beatin' of your life.”
Blanchard looked Billy over with new interest and measuring eyes that sparkled with appreciation.
“You are a husky yourself,” he said. “But do you think you can do it?”
“Sure. You're my meat.”
“All right, then, my friend. Look me up after the strike is settled, and I'll give you a chance at me.”
“Remember,” Billy added, “I got you staked out.”