He pulled back the lapel of his coat, and the land-grabber saw the butt of a gun nestling under his left arm. From his inner coat pocket Bob drew a cylindrical roll of paper about eight inches long.
Carey eyed him scornfully. “This is the city of Los Angeles, my friend, not the open desert at Garlock. A gunplay would be most ill-advised, I assure you.”
“Oh, that's just part of my wardrobe” Bob retorted. “I wouldn't think of using that on a man unless he was real dangerous—and men like you are beneath my notice. Come now, Carey. Which is it to be? Compromise or the penitentiary?”
“Certainly not compromise—on any terms but mine.”
“Well, press the button and call them in—Boston!”
Carey whirled in his chair, jerked open a drawer in his desk and reached his hand inside. Before he could withdraw it Bob McGraw's big automatic was covering him.
“Take your hand out of that drawer—Boston. Out, you dog, or I'll drill you!”
Carey's hand came out of the drawer slowly, very slowly, grasping a small pearl-handled revolver.
“This is the city of Los Angeles, my friend, and not the open desert. A gun-play would be most ill-advised, I assure you” Bob mocked the land-grabber. “You'd better let me have that pop-gun.”
He gently removed the little weapon from Carey's trembling hand.