The establishment was, as Joan had anticipated, in sole charge of Butch, who occupied a tilted chair, his lean nose exploring the sporting pages of The Evening Journal. Inevitably, a half-consumed Sweet Caporal cigarette ornamented his cynic mouth. He greeted Joan with a flicker of amusement.
"'Lo, kid!" he said: and threw aside the paper. "What's doing?"
"Edna said you wanted to see me."
"Yeh: that's right." Butch yawned liberally and thrust his hat to the back of his head.
"Well?" said the girl sharply. "What do you want?"
Butch delayed his answer until he had inserted a fresh cigarette between his lips, lighted it from the old, and inhaled deeply. Interim he looked her over openly, with the eyes of one from whom humanity has no secrets.
"Dja land that job?" he enquired at length, smoke trickling from his mouth and nostrils, a grim smile lurking about his lips.
"Haven't tried yet."
"But you're goin' to?"
"Of course."