Gallagher admitted that he had no idea where Cowboy kept his reserve cash.
Wan and Nevens exchanged looks and just smiled.
“If you ain’t too busy to-night, Gallagher,” said the amiable Mr. Nevens, “I’ll show you something that’ll pop your eyes out!”
Dago rapped at that moment to announce visitors.
“Who is it, Dago?” Cowboy asked, pulling out another cigar and lighting a match.
“Machine-gun Hegarty hisself aboard the Sea Hawk!”
Mr. Nevens went taut about the jaws and bit hard on the unlit cigar.
“Stick around Gallagher, and listen to the fun,” said he, then to Dago he said, “Send him up, Dago. And keep an eye on his right-hand man. I don’t want no junk stolen.”
Now Mr. Nevens, for all his slang and roughness when in the privacy of his office, could be the soul of polished gentility when he desired, a veneer learned at the time he laid aside his old cowboy trappings and decided to cut himself a piece of the world’s cake. He displayed this refined side of himself now by putting the unlighted black cigar into his desk-drawer and lighting, instead, one of more expensive make.
Machine-gun Hegarty came in with a flourish. He was some six feet five inches tall, broad-shouldered, groomed to a nicety, and correctly attired in every way for yachting.