It was
impossible for him to escape the natural male instinct to keep his
feelings out of words.
The girl's face softened. Inside, she was a river of tenderness
flowing toward the Irishman. "I'll go to your mother, Tim, if she
really wants me," she cried almost in a murmur.
"You're shoutin' now, Miss Annie," said Clay, smiling. "She sure wants
you. I'll hit the trail to have that talk with Jim Collins."
He found "Slim" Jim at his stand. That flashily dressed young crook
eyed him with a dogged and wary defiance. He had just come from a call
at the bedside of Jerry Durand and he felt a healthy respect for the
man who could do what this light-stepping young fellow had done to the
champion rough-houser of New York. The story Jerry had told was of an
assault from behind with a club, but this Collins did not accept at
par. There were too many bruises on his sides and cuts on his face to
be accounted for in any way except by a hard toe-to-toe fight.
"Mo'nin', Mr. Collins. I left you in a hurry last night and forgot to
pay my bill. What's the damage?" asked Clay in his gently ironic drawl.
"Slim" Jim growled something the meaning of which was drowned in an
oath.
"You say it was a free ride? Much obliged. That's sure fair enough,"
Clay went on easily. "Well, I didn't come to talk to you about that.
I've got other business with you this mo'nin'."
The chauffeur looked at him sullenly and silently.
"Suppose we get inside the cab where we can talk comfortably," Clay
proposed.
Pages:
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190