The big bird on the corner took a step forward. He seemed to be holding himself in with difficulty. The little guy waved his hand at him. “Not so fast,” he said, “we ain’t got to get rough with this lug.”
Duffy thought they were all screwy, and he wished he hadn’t socked that pint away. Clive stood away from the little guy and glared at Duffy.
The little guy looked at Duffy with stony eyes. “Get wise, bright boy,” he said. “We’ve come for the camera.”
Duffy pushed his hat to the back of his head and blew out his cheeks. So that was it, he thought. He wandered over to the wagon and picked up a bottle of Scotch. “You gentlemen want any of this?” he asked.
Clive had a gun in his hand. Duffy looked at it surprised, then he said to the little guy, “Tell that fairy to put his rod away, he might hurt someone.”
The little guy said, “I should care. What’s it to me?”
Duffy said very sharply, “Tell that punk to put his popgun down, or I’ll do it for him, and smack his ears down.”
Clive made a high whinny sound like a horse. He looked as though he was going to have some sort of a fit. He stood there, his face white, and his eyes dark with hate. Duffy went a little cold at the sight of him.
The little guy said, “Put it away.”
The youth turned his head slowly and looked at the little guy. “I’m going to pop him…” he said shrilly, all his words tumbling out of his mouth in a bunch.