"Sure, I'll beat it," returned he, resentfully. "But see here, Swann. Be careful how you shoot off your dirty mouth. It's not beyond me to hand a little tip to my friend Chief of Police Bell."
"You damned squealer!" shouted Swann. "Go ahead--do your worst. You'll find I pull a stroke.... Now get out of here."
With a violent action he shoved the little man out into the hall. Then turning to Lane he pointed with shaking hand to the door.
"Lane, you couldn't be a guest of mine."
"Swann, I certainly wouldn't be," retorted Lane, in tones that rang. "Pepper didn't tell me you were the proprietor of this--this joint."
"Get out of here or I'll throw you out!" yelled Swann, now beside himself with rage. And he made a threatening move toward Lane.
"Don't lay a hand on me," replied Lane. "I don't want my uniform soiled."
With that Lane turned to Dalrymple, and said quietly: "Holt, I came here to find you, not to play cards. That was a stall. Come away with me. You were not cut out for a card sharp or a booze fighter. What's got into you that you can gamble and drink with slackers?"
Dalrymple jammed his hat on and stepped toward the door. "Dare, you said a lot. I'll beat it with you—and I'll never come back."
"You bet your sweet life you won't," shouted Swann.