"You'd try the patience of Job, Cronin."
"I'm sorry."
"No, you're not," snarled Alf. "You're just doing this whole thing to be cussed. You know you've got me where I can't stir hand or foot. I was a fool ever to have got mixed up with such a white-livered, puling baby. I might have known you hadn't an ounce of sand."
"Take care, Sullivan," cautioned Cronin in a low, tense voice.
"But hang it all—why do you want to balk and torment me so?"
"I ain't balking and tormenting you."
"Yes, you are. You're just pulling the other way from sheer contrariness. Why can't you be decent and come across?"
"Haven't I been decent?" Cronin answered. "Haven't I fallen in with every idea you've suggested? You've had your way fully and freely. I haven't stood out for a single thing but this, have I?"
"N—o. But——"
"Well, why not give in and let me have this one thing as I want it? It don't amount to much, one way or the other. The boy is sickly and isn't likely to live long at best."