“You guys give me a pain. I’ll tell you now. I’ll show you the way,” Patsy forcibly added, seizing the telephone for a moment, but quickly replacing it on the table.
“There is one man who can tell you all about me. He will give it to you straight,” he quickly went on, now shouting with pretended resentment. “Call up 47 Madison! 47 Madison! Here, I’ll write it for you on the edge of this newspaper, so you’ll make no mistake. 47 Madison! Ask who Jack Dolan is, and——”
“Dry up!” snapped Gridley, interrupting, while Magill, Morgan, and Phelan stared from one to the other. “I’ll not telephone to anybody. You keep cool, Dolan, and answer my questions. This is nothing for you to get hot about. Who is the party, anyway?”
“He runs a barroom near Madison Avenue,” said Patsy curtly.
“What’s his name?”
“Jim Donovan. He knows all about me. He’ll tell you who I am and whether you can bank on me.”
“Sure, Ginger, we can bank on him,” Magill now cried impatiently. “He’s all right, or he wouldn’t have lent me a hand to get the skirt.”
“That’s right, too,” Morgan chimed in confidently.
“He’ll go the limit, Ginger, you can bet on that.”
“So he will, perhaps, but there was no harm in making[Pg 33] sure of it,” Gridley now said, less harshly, evidently impressed with these arguments and the attitude Patsy had taken. “He ought not to kick at that.”