“Speakin’ to me?” he asked softly.
“Well, can yuh imagine that?” Marsh challenged the whole room.
“Well, I wasn’t sure,” said Cultus drawlingly. “When a kid gets too much liquor inside his skin yuh never can tell about him.”
Alden Marsh flushed hotly.
“Is that so? Lemme tell yuh somethin’, Funny Face; I’ll⸺”
But his sentence was not finished. Cultus whirled quickly, caught the fingers of his left hand in Marsh’s muffler, whirled him around facing the bar, and almost with the same movement he plucked Marsh’s gun from his holster with his right hand, and tossed it over the bar.
Alden Marsh was in an undignified position, half-choked, helpless.
“If somebody will loan me a slipper or a barrel-stave,” said Cultus evenly, “we’ll finish the job.”
“You can have one of my slippers!” cried one of the girls, and sent it whirling across the room. It struck near the blackjack game, and one of the players picked it up.
Alden Marsh was swearing and choking at the same time. Van Deen surged away from the bar and stepped over to Cultus.