“No style about Jim,” said Harry, with a smile that was half a sneer.
“No, you bet there ain’t,” said Baxter, stolidly. “You oughter call me ‘Old Business,’ ’cause that’s what I am. Pass them pickles.”
It was a most interesting sight. At the head of the table sat Graham, a smooth-faced, well-fed man of forty, who might have passed for a prosperous banker, or a man living on an annuity; to his right reclined, rather than sat, young Montgomery, a spruce and slender fellow, with soft blue eyes, tremulous lips, and light hair neatly brushed; while opposite Graham sat Baxter, a coarse, shaggy, grimy man of uncertain age, with small, shifty eyes, a heavy beard, and a general air of brutal strength. Had it not been for the fact that each man wore his hat, and that the bag of stolen goods lay on one corner of the table, it might have been taken for a small stag party, Graham personating the host to perfection.
The resemblance was lost, however, a moment later. The door leading to the back stairway, directly behind Jim Baxter, opened and revealed a spare man with long blonde whiskers, wearing gold eye-glasses, and a flowered dressing-gown.
Graham was the first to see the intruder, and his exclamation of astonishment caused Baxter to turn his head. In an instant that worthy was on his feet, with a pistol in his hand. Graham was quicker, however, and before his companion could raise the weapon he seized his arm and pushed him aside.
“No violence, Jim,” he said, sternly.
“I warn’t goin’ to shoot,” growled Jim. “I was only goin’ to give him a crack on the head.”
“I won’t have it,” returned Graham, authoritatively. “Sit down.”