"Johnson and Kenealy will be your own men."
"That is a question." Billy sat back in his chair and made a church roof and a steeple with the fingers of his two hands. He raised lazy gray eyes to Tip's face. "That is a question," he repeated. "They may be my men and then again—" He ceased speaking, leaving the sentence unfinished. The church steeple became a gallows. "You see, I can't risk it," drawled Billy.
Tip O'Gorman carefully set his glass down on the table. "You must," he remarked softly.
"As I said before," murmured Billy, his drawl drawlier than ever, "must is a hard, hard word. But I'll tell you what I'll do, Tip," he continued in a louder, more cheerful tone. "You show me what 'musts' in the statutes apply to the sheriff's office, and I'll obey every last one of 'em. When I took office, I made oath to obey and support the laws, you know."
He smiled at Tip. The latter smiled back. "Lookit here, Bill," he said in his best and most fatherly fashion, "I like you——"
"I suppose that was why I was elected," interrupted Billy.
"Partly," was the brazen reply. "But there were other reasons, of course. We needed a good man to win, a man that was on the level, an honest man, a——"
"Not a crooked man, or a dishonest man, or a pink man, or even a man with purple spots. So you elected me. I'll take it as a compliment. Go on."
"A straight man doesn't throw down his friends," said Tip O'Gorman.
"Sure not," declared Billy warmly. "He'd be a pup if he did. I agree with you, Tip. We won't fight over that."