"You'd better go," said Mr. Pooley, softly.
"Not unless I get some money first."
"So that's the game, is it? Think I'll pay you to drift, huh? How much?"
"Oh, about ten thousand."
"Is that all?"
"Well, say fifteen—and not a check, neither."
"No," said Mr. Pooley, "it won't be a check. It won't be anything, you—worm."
So saying Mr. Pooley laid violent hands on McFluke, yanked him out of the bunk, and flung him sprawling on the floor.
"Not one cent do you get from me," declared Mr. Pooley. "I never paid blackmail yet and I ain't beginning now. I always told Harpe you'd upset the applecart with yo're bullheaded ways. You stinking murderer, it wasn't necessary to kill Old Man Dale! Suppose he did hit you, what of it? You could have knocked him out with a bungstarter. But no, you had to kill him, and get everybody suspicious, didn't you? Why—you, you make me feel like cutting your throat, to have you upset my plans this way!"
McFluke raised himself on an arm. "I didn't upset yore plans none," he denied, sulkily. "Everythin's comin' out all right. Hell, he wouldn't play that day, anyway! Said he'd never touch a card or look at a wheel again as long as he lived, and when I laughed at him he hit me. Whatell else could I do? I hadda shoot him. I—"