"And where'n the hell do I come in?" he asked.
"Don't know, I'm sure, mister; and I don't care very much either. But I have an idea that you or I will go out, quick, if you don't cool down."
"Here!—you cut that stuff out." He came up to the counter, clenching his huge hands. "I'm Joe Clark,—see."
"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Clark. I'm George Bremner."
"Who'n the hell's George Bremner?" he burst out.
"That's just what I was wondering in regard to Joe Clark," I retorted, returning glare for glare. "But look you here,—whoever you may be, you may get off with this sort of language elsewhere, but it doesn't have any effect on the man who is running the Golden Crescent Trading Company."
He tried hard to hold himself together.
"Guess you're one of them new-broom-sweep-clean smart Alicks," he said.
"About as smart as you are civil, Mr. Clark."
"Well, Mister Man, supposin' you and me gets down to brass tacks, right now. I'm the Superintendent of No. 2 Camp, with a say in the management of Camps No. 1 and No. 3. I own three tugs operatin' on the coast here."