"A thief," Charley continued, whipping himself into a frenzy. "That's what he is—a dirty, low-down thief! I'm the ordinary, decent sort ... get the credit for what I am ... and pay for it, by God! But he—he doesn't pay. I bag all the disgrace ... and he walks off with the goods—Rouminof's stones."
Potch did not look at Michael. What Charley had said did not seem to shock or surprise him.
"I've made a perfectly fair and reasonable proposition," Charley went on more quietly. "I've told him ... if he'll go halves——"
"Guess again," Potch sneered.
Charley swung to his feet, a volley of expletives swept from him.
"I've told Rummy to get the law on his side," he cried shrilly, "and he's going to. There's one little bit of proof I've got that'll help him, and——"
"You'll get jail yourself over it," Potch said.
"Don't mind if I do," Charley shouted, and poured his rage and disappointment into a flood of such filthy abuse that Potch took him by the shoulders.
"Shut your mouth," he said. "D'y' hear?... Shut your mouth!"
Charley continued to rave, and Potch, gripping his shoulders, ran him out of the hut.