The two sat down on the counter to wait. Blakely strolled across to the open boxes of neckties.
"Cravats," he sneered, fingering them.
"An' —— fine ones!" exclaimed Mike Flynn, slamming down the coil of rope on the counter. "Thim yaller ones wit' vi'let spots now, yuh couldn't beat 'em in New York. An' the grand grane ones. Ain't they the little beauts? I just sold one to Tom Loudon."
"Green shore does suit some people," said the 88 manager, coldly.
Loudon felt Johnny Ramsay stiffen beside him. But Loudon merely smiled a slow, pleasant smile.
"Hirin' any new men, Sam?" he inquired, softly, his right hand cuddling close to his belt.
"What do yuh want to know for?" demanded Blakely, wheeling.
"Why, yuh see, I was thinkin' o' quittin' the Bar S, an' I'd sort o' like to get with a good, progressive outfit, one that don't miss any chances."
Loudon's voice was clear and incisive. Each word fell with the precision of a pebble falling into a well. Mike Flynn backed swiftly out of range.
"What do yuh mean by that?" demanded Blakely, his gaze level.