Zorn stopped his machine abreast of Sam, hopped nimbly from his saddle, and dropped the support by which it could be held upright. He pushed back his cap and pulled off his goggles.
“Parker, this is lucky,” he said. “I’ve been wanting a chance to talk things over with you, when we’d be nice and private with nobody to rubber.”
Sam met the overture coldly. “I don’t know that I want to talk to you.”
Zorn grinned. “Well, you can’t very well help yourself—unless you run away.”
“Oh, I’ve things enough to say,” Sam responded sharply. “I’ve just been waiting for the right time.”
“Don’t worry—this is it! Never’ll be a better time or place for what you’re going to hear.... Look here! Had enough, have you?”
Sam stared at the other. “Enough? What are you driving at?”
“You oughtn’t to need maps. That election the other day proved that you and your gang are done for—unless I lend you a hand.”
“What kind of a hand?”
Zorn showed his teeth, though his speech was pacific. “A helping hand. You’re in bad—the lot of you.”