"Now," said Newman, "you and me is goin' to have an important conference on serious matters."
Marsh did not reply. He seemed quite at his ease, and not at all interested. Nevertheless, both his eyes and his brain were actively taking stock of the situation; watching for some slip that might enable him to change their relative positions. Newman was leaning comfortably back on the davenport, his legs crossed and his feet a long way from the floor. Marsh surmised that there would be some delay in getting the latter into action again. The automatic, however, was still ready. Held firmly in one hand, the weight of the barrel was supported in the palm of the other, the back of which rested on Newman's knee. Marsh realized that when he looked at this gun he was staring directly into its muzzle. Obviously, this was a time for watchful waiting only.
"We can't figure where you fit into this here game," Newman began. "You ain't a bull; you don't work; and you don't steal."
Marsh laughed at this quaint appraisal of him.
"Well, what ARE you tryin' to pull off?" questioned Newman, his bright, piercing eyes studying Marsh's face.
"You have me at a disadvantage," returned Marsh. "I do not know what game you refer to in the first place. In the second, I cannot see why the pursuit of my private business should interest you."
"Come on—come on!" remonstrated Newman. "I ain't got any time to waste kiddin' around with you."
"Get down to the point then," advised Marsh.
"All right, I will," said Newman. "We don't mind these bulls. They're bone-heads. I can run circles around any one of them. But you're gettin' too damned close, and we want to know what you're after."
"Thanks for the tip," replied Marsh. "If I were really interested in you, the information you have just given me would be of great value."