The men were listening, crediting him. Old Slade, in the background, took his pipe from his lips.
"An' now I suppose you're satisfied," he inquired harshly.
"How d'you mean, satisfied?" demanded Conroy, coloring. "You saw what happened, didn't you?"
"You made him gape," said Slade. "That was because he made you howl, eh? Well, ain't you calling it quits, then—till the next time he kicks you?"
Some one laughed; Conroy raised his voice.
"He'll never kick me again," he cried. "His kicking days are over.
He's kicked me once too often, he has. Quits—I guess not!"
Slade let a mouthful of smoke trickle between his lips; it swam in front of his face in a tenuous film of pale vapor.
"Well, talkin' won't do it, anyhow," he said.
"No," retorted Conroy, and collected all eyes to his gesture. "But this will!"
He showed them the thin-bladed knife which the Greek had given him, holding it before them by the hilt. He let a dramatic moment elapse.