The leader’s eyes hadn’t left my face. [[219]]
“Who is he?” he pressed steadily.
“The King of Ireland.”
“I’ll ‘king’ you,” he darkened.
“Yesterday,” I said, “he was the Sultan of San Francisco.”
“I’d like to punch your head,” raved Bid.
Jimmy was dancing.
“Go ahead; go ahead,” he urged, pushing the leader’s arm.
But Bid, with an uneasy look at the cave’s entrance, shook his head.
“You heard what the man said.”