CHAPTER XXIII
“HE WHO FIGHTS AND RUNS AWAY—”
“
I don’t like the proposition, an’ that’s a fact,” muttered Fowle, lifting a glass of whisky and glancing furtively at Voles, when the domineering eyes of the superior scoundrel were averted for a moment.
“Whether you like it or not, you’ve got to lump it,” was the ready answer.
“I don’t see that. I agreed to help you up to a certain point——”
Voles swung around at him furiously, as a mastiff might turn on a wretched mongrel.
“Say, listen! If I’m up to the neck in this business, you’re in it over your ears. You can’t duck now, you white-livered cur! The cops know you. They had you in their hands once, and warned you to leave this girl alone. If I stand in the dock you’ll stand there, too, and I’m not the man to say the word that’ll save you.”
“But she’s with her aunt. She’s under age. Her aunt is her legal guardian. I know a bit about the law, you see. This notion of yours is a bird of another color. Sham weddings are no joke. It will mean ten years.”