“Well?”
“You’re going to tell them that?” asked Jimmy.
“I am.”
“Are you also going to tell them why you didn’t have me arrested that night?” he said.
McEachern started. Jimmy planted himself in front of him and glared up into his face. It would have been hard to say which of the two was the angrier. The policeman was flushed, and the veins stood out on his forehead. Jimmy was in a white heat of rage. He had turned very pale, and his muscles were quivering. Jimmy in this mood had once cleared a Los Angeles bar-room with the leg of a chair in the space of two and a quarter minutes by the clock.
“Are you?” he demanded. “Are you?”
McEachern’s hand, hanging at his side, lifted itself hesitatingly. The fingers brushed against Jimmy’s shoulder. Jimmy’s lips twitched.
“Yes,” he said, “do it! Do it, and see what happens! By God! if you put a hand on me I’ll finish you. Do you think you can bully me? Do you think I care for your size?”
McEachern dropped his hand. For the first time in his life he had met a man who, instinct told him, was his match and more. He stepped back a pace.
Jimmy put his hands in his pockets and turned away. He walked to the mantelpiece and leaned his back against it.