“Marten’s in Baku. Whar’s Baku?”
“I don’t know, but it’s a damn long way from Newport, anyhow, or Derry an’ Nancy wouldn’t be cavortin’ round together on plugs from one p’int to any other p’int.”
“You an’ me sized up that proposition same like.”
“We’re a slick pair,” grunted MacGonigal sarcastically.
“That’s as may be—I’ve heerd folk say wuss ner that ’bout you,” said Jake. “But what I want ter know is this: S’pose some other low-down cuss gits busy, and stirs his gray matter thinkin’ hard on things he saw in the newspaper, what’s ter be done?”
MacGonigal brought his big red face very near Jake’s olive-skinned one. “If he’s on the ranch, bounce him; if he’s in Bison, let me know,” he growled.
Meanwhile, the man whose interests they were planning to safeguard had looked up in anger when a shadow darkened the open window; but he started to his feet in sheer amazement when he saw Dacre and heard his voice.
“You?” he cried. “How in God’s name did you get here?”
“You were in trouble, Power, and I count it a poor friendship that shirks a few days’ journey when a chum is in distress.”
Their hands met, and Power’s white face showed a wave of color. He was deeply stirred. For the moment he was an ordinary man, and subject to ordinary emotions.