“It don’t go down, not down my throat,” Bannon growled. “He had some other object. He may be putting something over that we don’t know about.”
“I’ll darned soon find out!” cried Floyd, with eyes blazing. “What was it, Carter? What was your game?”
“You’ll not find out from me,” Nick curtly answered.
“Won’t I?”
“Not by a long chalk.”
“We’ll see!” thundered Floyd, lifting from the melting pot the ladle half filled with liquid silver. “You answer! You tell me! Out with it—or I’ll pour this down your infernal neck!”
He meant what he said—and he looked it.
CHAPTER IX.
DEAD ASHES.
Chick Carter whipped out his searchlight, crouching above the prostrate man he had found in the alley.
At the same moment a low moan broke from the victim of Bug Bannon’s treacherous assault. Patsy’s head was harder than the cowardly young ruffian had thought. Patsy was fast on his way to reviving.