"It was only little me," said Jimmy. "Sorry if I hurt you at all. You really want a mat for that sort of thing."
The man's hand went furtively to his pocket. Then, his eye caught sight of the revolver, which Jimmy had placed on the table. With a sudden dash, he seized it.
"Now, den, boss!" he said, between his teeth.
Jimmy extended his hand, and unclasped it. Six shells lay in the palm.
"Why worry?" he said. "Sit down and let us talk of life."
"It's a fair cop, boss," said the man, resignedly.
"Away with melancholy," said Jimmy. "I'm not going to call the police. You can beat it whenever you like."
The man stared.
"I mean it," said Jimmy. "What's the trouble? I've no grievance. I wish, though, if you haven't any important engagement, you would stop and talk awhile first."
A broad grin spread itself across the other's face. There was something singularly engaging about him when he grinned.
"Gee! If youse ain't goin' to call de cops, I'll talk till de chickens roost ag'in."
"Talking, however," said Jimmy, "is dry work. Are you by any chance on the wagon?"
"What's dat? Me? On your way, boss!"
