“That’s me,” squeaks Sol.
“I’ve got fifty pounds of dynamite against the front of your building, Sol. There’s a two-minute fuse on a loaded stick, and the box of powder is settin’ on a box of primers. I can either fire the fuse or shoot the primers. If you fire a shot toward that shed I’ll upset Willer Crick. Do you sabe?”
There ain’t a word said for a while, and then Sol says—
“You—what do yuh want us to do?”
“I want you to bring down every gun up there, Sol. Load up and bring ’em all down here and lay ’em in the street.”
“Like —— he will!” roars a voice.
“You’ll never get my guns!”
“Nor mine!” howls another.
“Better do it,” advises Sellers. “He’s got just what he says he has.”
“I’m countin’ to ten,” states Hashknife. “Countin’ in my own rapid way, Sol.”