“I have called,” said Steele, “to see if we can come to any workable arrangement.”
“In what line of activity?” asked Nicholson.
“In a line of passivity rather than of activity,” explained Steele, with a smile. “When I was a youngster, and engaged in a fight, it was etiquette that as soon as the under boy hollered ‘Enough!’ the fellow on top ceased pummelling him. I have come all the way from Chicago to cry ‘Enough!’”
Nicholson’s eyebrows raised very slightly.
“I fear I do not understand you, Mr. Steele.”
“Oh, yes, you do. It will save time and talk, if we take certain things for granted. When we first met, I was so unfortunate as to find myself opposed to you. I admit frankly that I entirely underestimated your genius and your power. Since then, on one occasion you came within an ace of ruining me. On a second and more recent occasion you came within an ace of causing my death. Now, I have called at the captain’s office to settle. In the language of the wild and woolly West, my hands are up, and you have the drop on me. What are your terms?”
For a few moments Nicholson regarded his visitor with an expression in which mild surprise was mingled with equally mild anxiety. When at last he spoke, his voice was perceptibly lowered, as if he addressed an invalid in a sick-room.
“You are not looking very well, Mr. Steele?”
“No, nor feeling well, either, Mr. Nicholson.”
“I am sorry to hear it. What is the trouble?”