“I think you're guessing, sir.”
“Never a guess, McCann. You'll have to explain yourself.”
McCann had once had a wholesome respect for me. But it looked now as if the bottom was dropping out of it.
“Sure, Mr. Crocker,” he said, “what would you be doing in such company as I'm hunting for? Can it be that ye're helping to lift a criminal over the border?”
“McCann,” I asked sternly, “what have you had on the tug?”
Force of habit proved too much for the man. He went back to the apologetic.
“Never a drop, Mr. Crocker. Upon me soul!”
This reminded Mr. Cooke of something (be it recorded) that he had for once forgotten. He lifted up the top of the refrigerator. The chief's eye followed him. But I was not going to permit this.
“Now, McCann,” I commenced again, “if you will state your business here, if you have any, I shall be obliged. You are delaying Mr. Cooke.”
The chief was seized with a nervous tremor. I think we were a pair in that, only I managed to keep mine, under. When it came to the point, and any bribing was to be done, I had hit upon a course. Self-respect demanded a dignity on my part. With a painful indecision McCann pulled a paper from his pocket which I saw was a warrant. And he dropped his cigar. Mr. Cooke was quick to give him another.