The brute sat on a low stool, his elbows on his knees, his head resting on his hands.
He had determined upon a bloody piece of work, but the still, small voice of his conscience whispered to him not to do what he meditated.
“Tambourine,” he growled, “you can’t stop here.”
“Where are the others?”
“Just left.”
This information did not seem to please Mr. Jack.
“Gone, eh?”
“Yes,” replied Brodie, “they pulled off in the barge as you knocked at the door.”
“Go to sleep, Crackers,” said the little fellow, throwing himself on the floor; “I guess we have as good a right here as anybody else, seeing that we helps pay the rent. We haven’t got our receipt about us for last month, but what of that?—they won’t go to court to have us dispossessed.”
“I told you to go.”