"Why, Black Jack's kid. It's printed in big type all over you."
His keen eyes continued to bore at Terry as though he were striving to read features beneath a mask. Terry could see his visitor's face more clearly now. It was square, with a powerfully muscled jaw and features that had a battered look. Suddenly he teetered forward in his chair and dropped his elbows aggressively on his knees.
"D'you know what they're talking about downstairs?"
"Haven't the slightest idea."
"You ain't! The old lady is trying to fix up a bad time for you."
"She's raising a crowd?"
"Doing her best. I dunno what it'll come to. The boys are stirring a little. But I think it'll be all words and no action. Four-flushers, most of 'em. Besides, they say you bumped old Minter for a goal; and they don't like the idea of messing up with you. They'll just talk. If they try anything besides their talk—well, you and me can fix 'em!"
Terry slipped into the only other chair which the room provided, but he slid far down in it, so that his holster was free and the gun butt conveniently under his hand.
"You seem a charitable sort," he said. "Why do you throw in with me?"
"And you don't know who I am?" said the other.