Glancing sharply towards the end of the bar, he became aware of two flashily dressed, undesirable-looking individuals of the type that usually makes an easy living preying upon the unfortunate denizens of the underworld, sizing him up.
The one accosted as “Harry,” a big, heavily-built man about thirty, with a sneer on his evilly handsome, sinister face, answered slowly:
“Oh, him. I guess he must be one of them Mounted Police ginks you hear tell of over our side of the Line. Kind of ‘prairie cop,’” he added contemptuously, and spat.
The epithet of “cop” was one held in peculiar detestation by members of the Force and, coupled with the fellow’s offensive manner, became a gratuitous insult that was almost more than the Sergeant could stand, for a slight titter followed, and all the faces—with the exception of the bartender’s-wore a sardonic grin at the policeman’s discomfiture.
Choking with silent fury, he glowered warily with swift calculation around him.
“No, it wouldn’t do,” he reflected. There would be too many witnesses, like in that last business at Elbow Vale; and fearful of his own ungovernable temper, lest any ensuing altercation should precipitate the inevitable right then and there, he held his peace.
Lowering his voice, his elbows on the bar, he spoke quietly to the bartender:
“Who’s them two fellers at the end there, Pete—strangers?”
“Yes. I dunno who they are,” said that worthy in the same low tone, busy polishing glasses the while. “They blew in off’n the West-bound. Jest stiffs, I guess, Sergeant. They was laughin’ fit to split ’bout somethin’ when they first come in.”
Benton finished his beer and, turning, pushed through the swing door, a vindictive purpose seething in his mind. Crossing over to the dark side of the street, he patiently waited.