“I haven’t said it,” Sam interposed promptly. “Why haven’t I? Because I know, and every other fellow here knows, it isn’t true.”
“Oh!” said the Shark, with a queer little gasp, and a perceptible lessening of ferocity.
Sam pressed his advantage. “Be sensible, can’t you? I like Varley; so do most of the others. For some reason you don’t. That’s no excuse, though, for a general row. Varley isn’t thrusting himself in here or——”
“Huh! That’s just what he did do in the beginning.”
“Well, that was because he didn’t understand the custom about outsiders. But he was clever enough to guess visitors weren’t the usual thing. You’ll notice he hasn’t come here again.”
“Huh! Good reason!”
“What do you mean?”
“I told him not to,” said the Shark grimly.
Sam stared at the spectacled youth. “You—you said that—to his face?”
“Sure!” said the Shark doggedly. “When? Oh, three-four days ago. Where? On the street, where we’d met, and where he’d stopped me, and begun to hint about what a smooth joint we had here, and how he’d like to look in occasionally. Then I told him it was a closed club. Why shouldn’t I tell him? Fact, isn’t it?”