"Black Jack," he kept whispering. "Black Jack! God above, are you Black
Jack's son?"
And the bewildered Terry answered:
"I'm his son. Whatever you think, and be damned to you all! I'm his son and I'm proud of it. Now get your gun!"
But Joe Pollard became a great catapult that shot across the table and landed beside Terry. Two vast hands swallowed the hands of the younger man and crushed them to numbness.
"Proud of it? God a'mighty, boy, why wouldn't you be? Black Jack's son!
Pete, thank God you come in time!"
"In time to save your head for you, Joe."
"I believe it," said the big man humbly. "I b'lieve he would of cleaned up on me. Maybe on all of us. Black Jack would of come close to doing it. But you come in time, Pete. And I'll never forget it."
While he spoke, he was still wringing the hands of Terry. Now he dragged the stunned Terry around the table and forced him down in his own huge, padded armchair, his sign of power. But it was only to drag him up from the chair again.
"Lemme look at you! Black Jack's boy! As like Black Jack as ever I seen, too. But a shade taller. Eh, Pete? A shade taller. And a shade heavier in the shoulders. But you got the look. I might of knowed you by the look in your eyes. Hey, Slim, damn your good-for-nothing hide, drag Johnny here pronto by the back of the neck!"
Johnny, the Chinaman, appeared, blinking at the lights. Joe Pollard clapped him on the shoulder with staggering force.