“There’s no argument. You can’t shelter here one night with those guns in your pants. Further, you’ll need to convince us you’ve no weapon of offence on you. That’s all.”
“If I hand ’em over, will I get ’em again when I quit?”
“Surely. This is a shelter for boys like you, not a ‘hold up.’”
The stranger reluctantly drew a pair of heavy automatic pistols from the two hip-pockets of his trousers, and still more reluctantly passed them across the table, butt first. The latter detail had a significance by no means lost upon those watching him. Jim took possession of them, and placed them in the drawer of the table.
“That’s all right,” he said. “Now, just oblige by showing me the linings of all your pockets—unless you are willing for my friend here to go through them. We take no chances.”
The man laughed bitterly.
“No, you surely don’t.”
“No,” agreed Jim calmly. “Those pockets?”
The man turned them out. There was nothing it was necessary to relieve him of, except some cartridge clips for his pistols. And he returned his goods to their places, his narrow eyes twinkling with something intended for a smile. As the last of the collection was replaced Larry cleared his throat.
“You best unfasten your vest, boy, and hand over that knife,” he said quietly.