“Tha’sso?” Santel sneered. “You ain’t got sense enough to know when yo’re insulted.”
“Have you insulted me?” questioned Brick wonderingly.
He turned his head and looked around the room, as if asking someone to confirm it. Hendricks caught his eye and tried to signal a warning. Silent moved in beside the bar and began rolling a cigaret, as if nothing was the matter. Santel shot a glance at Silent, and it seemed that the big man’s unconcerned attitude irritated him.
Brick turned back to Santel—
“You didn’t really mean to insult me, didja, Santel?”
“Well, I’ll be ed!” Santel’s voice was hoarse with indignation. “Did I really mean it?”
Santel leaned forward until his face was within a foot of Brick, his hands spread out from his sides. His anger had made him forget that Brick was egging him on.
“You red-headed pup!”
Santel had evidently figured that Brick was afraid of him, but he was jerking back as he spoke; jerking back, as his right hand flashed for his gun. As quick as a cat Brick shifted just a trifle, slashing out with his right hand; a cutting stroke with the side of his hand, which caught Santel just at the middle of his throat and made him lose immediate interest in his gun.
He straightened up, with both hands going to his throat, his face twisted with the agony of it, as he slithered along the edge of the bar.