“I guess the boss knows a thing or two,” replied Jerry easily, in a tone that implied unlimited confidence in Copeland.
He was consumed with indignation that Kirby should be able to tell him anything about Copeland. It had been done, too, with a neatness of insinuation that was galling.
“Well, I guess,” persisted Kirby, “you miss old Uncle Tim at the store. I used to have many a jolly row with Uncle Tim; he was one man it never paid to fool with; but he was all right—just about as clean-cut and straight a man as I ever fought discounts with. Uncle Tim was a merchant,” he ended impressively as he bent over the table.
In calling Farley a merchant with this air of finality he implied very clearly that William B. Copeland was something quite different, and Jerry resented this imputation as a slur upon his house. Much as he admired Kirby’s clothes and metropolitan ways, he hated him cordially for thus speaking of Copeland, who was one of Kirby’s important customers. Mere defeat was no adequate punishment for Kirby; Jerry proceeded to make a “run” that attracted the admiring attention of players at neighboring tables and precluded further discussion of Copeland.
At midnight Kirby said he had had all the billiards he wanted and invited Jerry to his room.
“I always like to tell people about their own town and I’ll show you where they’re piling up the chips,” he remarked.
His room was opposite the elevator on the seventh floor, and having unlocked his door he piloted Jerry round a corner and indicated three rooms which he said were given over to gambling.
“If you give the right number of taps that first door will open,” said Kirby, “but as an old friend I warn you to keep out.”
As they were turning away a telephone tinkled faintly in one of the rooms and they heard voices raised excitedly, accompanied by the bang of over-turned furniture.
“They’ve got a tip the cops are coming or there’s a fight,” said Kirby. “Here’s where we fade!”