Apparently, he had. He immediately broke forth in a storm of invective that scorched the already overheated room. Sandy’s ears fairly tingled as he listened to the horrible oaths and scathing denouncement.
“Mebbe yuh got me now,” he snarled, concluding his tirade, “but yuh ain’t finished with me yet. The knock on the head yuh got a while back won’t be nothin’ compared to what’s coming to yuh. Yuh ain’t got no call to meddle in honest men’s business.”
“Honest men!” gasped the sergeant, plainly taken aback. “Honest men,” he repeated, staring in a sort of grim fascination at the row of evil faces in front of him. “Why, my good fellow, I wish you’d explain one or two things to my satisfaction. I wish—”
Sandy’s roar of laughter interrupted him. La Qua seized the opportunity to declare venomously:
“I don’t need to explain nothin’. If one or two o’ your men got hurt, it’s all on account o’ their meddling.”
The policeman saw the folly of further argument. He turned back to where Sandy stood.
“Let’s try to find something to eat,” he proposed. “A hot cup of tea would go well right now. I’m famished. After we’ve eaten, you can roll in, Sandy, while I stand guard.”
“That’s mighty kind of you, sergeant, but I don’t think I’ll accept. You need the rest more than I do.”
Richardson smiled and patted Sandy’s thatch of yellow hair.
“All right, if you insist. I’ll agree to take advantage of your offer, but only on one condition.”