"You size me up?"
"I do."
"All right. If you ever tell anyone I got money that ain't money I'll shoot you through the head."
"Don't worry, Clinch."
"I ain't. You're a crook; you won't talk. You're a gentleman, too. They don't sell out a pal. Say, Hal, there's only one fella I don't want to meet."
"Who's that, Mike?"
"Lemme tell you," continued Clinch, resting more heavily on the shelf while Smith, looking out through the pantry shutter at the dancing, listened intently.
"When I was in France in a Forestry Rig'ment," went on Clinch, lowering his always pleasant voice, "I was to Paris on leave a few days before they sent us home."
"I was in the washroom of a caffy — a-cleanin' up for supper, when dod-bang! into the place comes a-tumblin' a man with two cops pushing and kicking him.
"They didn't see me in there for they locked the door on the man. He was a swell gent, too, in full dress and silk hat and all like that, and a opry cloak and white kid gloves, and mustache and French beard.