Justin Merrick struggled with himself a moment, then held out his hand. He did not want to be a poor loser.
“The best of luck, Betty,” he said.
Gladness gleamed in the soft eyes through which the eager spirit seemed to yearn to comfort him.
“You, too, Justin,” she whispered.
CHAPTER XXXV
BIRDS OF A FEATHER
They sat on opposite sides of a table, the food and dishes not yet cleared away after their supper. A cheap kerosene lamp lit the room insufficiently. The smoke from a ragged wick had entirely blackened one side of the glass chimney. One of the men had cunningly utilized this to throw the face of his companion into the light while his own remained in shadow. His bleached eyes watched the emotions come and go as they registered on the twisted, wolfish countenance of this criminal on the dodge. He was playing on his evil instincts as a musician does upon the strings of a violin.
“Me, I said right away, soon as I seen you, ‘This Cig’s no quitter; he’ll go through.’ So I tied up with you. Game, an’ no mollycoddle. Tha’s how I sized you up.”
“You got me right, Prowers. I’ll say so.”
The little man with the leathery face watched his victim. In the back of his mind a dreadful thought had lodged and become fixed. He would use for his purpose this vain and shallow crook, then blot him out of life before he turned upon him.
“Don’t I know it? Cig ain’t roostin’ up here for his health, I says to myself. Not none, by jiminy by jinks. He’s got business.”