"Jean Baptiste Giroux, damn you!" spluttered Tom Sullivan. "You know damn well what I want, and if you don't give it up, by God, I'll kill you, you cursed thief--kill you, I say."
"Give up what, Tom?"
"The mail contract, damn you!"
"And if not, Tom?"
"If not? You refuse? He refuses. Come on, boys! All together!"
But Pamphile laid his hand on Tom's shoulder.
"Wait, Tom. He has not yet refused. Give him a chance. Wait, I say. I also have a request to make of Monseigneur the Bishop."
Jean did not smile any more; but his lips were pressed close together, and a steely glitter was in his eye.
"What is it, then?"
"I ask, Monseigneur the Bishop that was to be; I demand, little priest, to be permitted to strike you four times across the face with this little whip; the same, you will notice, that was used the other day. It was with some difficulty that I obtained it, but here it is--the very same, I assure you."