Sunny glanced from one to the other. His look was half questioning and wholly angry. He glanced across at the window and thrust his hands in his ragged trousers pockets.
And presently as he began to tap the floor with his foot a fresh rush of fiery anger was mounting to his head. He opened his lips as though about to continue his tirade, but apparently changed his mind. And, instead, he drew a dollar bill from his pocket, and flung it on the counter.
“Three more drinks,” he demanded roughly.
Minky in unfeigned surprise produced the glasses. Sandy leant over, and, with face thrust forward, inspected the bill. Toby contented himself with a low whistle of astonishment.
Sunny glared at them contemptuously.
“Yes,” he said roughly, “I’ve earned it. I’ve worked for it, do you understand? Wild Bill set me to look after Zip’s kids, an’ he’s paid me for it. But––but that money burns––burns like hell, an’ I want to be quit of it. Oh, I ain’t bug on no sort o’ charity racket, I’m jest about as soft as my back teeth. But I’m mad––mad to git busy doin’ anythin’ so we ken git Zip level with that low-down skunk, James. An’ if ther’s fi’ cents’ worth o’ grit in you, Mister Sandy Joyce, an’ an atom o’ savvee in your fool brain, Toby, you’ll take a hand in the game.”
Minky looked on in silent approval. Anything directed against James was bound to meet with his approval just now. But Sandy cleared his throat, and lounged with his back against the counter.
“An’ wot, I’d ast, is goin’ to hurt this tough?” he inquired, with a dash of his usual sarcasm.
Sunny flew at his drink and gulped it down.
“How do I know?” he cried scornfully.