Which reminded Cig. A triumphant venom surged up in him.
“Gonna take me down to de cop, are youse?” he sneered. “Say, will youse ring for a taxi, Jake? I gotta go to jail wid dis bird.”
In two sentences Prowers gave his version of the story to Black. Tug corrected him instantly.
“He came to blow us up in the tunnel. When I took him back, he dug six sticks of dynamite out of the dirt in the rock wall.”
Black spat into the fire. His face reflected disgust, but he said nothing. What was there to say, except that his soul was sick of the evil into which he was being dragged by the man he accepted as leader?
Tug put on his slicker.
“Where you going?” asked Black.
“To the camp.”
“’S a long way. Better stay at my shack to-night.”
“Much obliged. I will.”