"Stand up, Scar-faced Johnny, and answer the questions I shall ask you."
One of them, a short, stocky, red-headed, brutalized being, who was almost as broad as he was long, leaped to his feet, thrust his hands deeply into his pockets, and with his chin stuck forward aggressively, waited.
"You hate Nick Carter, do you, Johnny?" Madge asked.
"I hate him like poison."
"And you would kill him if you could?"
"I'd cut his throat in half a minute if I was sure of not being caught."
"Tell me again why you hate him so."
"Ain't he sent me twice to prison? Once for four years and once for three. And the last time he done it didn't he hand me a welt alongside of the jaw that I'll never forget? A man can't hit me like that and have me love him afterward. You just show me the way to do it, Black Madge, and I'll lay him out cold—so cold that he'll never get over it again. All I want is a chance."
"All right," said Madge, "take your seat.
"Now, Slippery Al, you stand up. What's your line of graft, Slippery?"