"What did the last sheriff get?"
"I told you it varied."
"I know you told me. Tell me again."
Tip O'Gorman shifted his position in the chair. He was being baited. He realized it now. A slow anger rose in his breast. But an admixture of dismay in the anger kept it from boiling over.
He continued to temporize. "Your slice will be worth while, well worth while. Leave it to us. You can trust me."
"Can I? I wonder."
"Meaning?" O'Gorman's face was cold as his heart was hot.
"I wonder. I do it now and then. Habit, I suppose. No harm in it, is there?"
"Lookit here, you don't doubt me, do you?"
"Unhand me, Jack Dalton! I may be poor—I may starve to death, but I will never be an old man's plaything. Better death than dishonor-rur-rur. Don't be so melodramatic, Tip. Who am I to doubt you? You? What a question!"