Sybarite heartily. "But--how did you get
into it?"
"Just by way of being a natural-born ass."
"Oh, well! If it comes to that, I admit it's none of my business--"
"The deuce it isn't! After all you've done for me! Good Lord, man,
where _would_ I be...!"
"Sleeping the sleep of the doped in some filthy corner of Dutch House,
most likely."
"And you saved me from that!"
"And got this hole drilled through you instead."
"Got me away; I'd've collected the lead anyhow--wasn't meaning to stay
without a fight."
"Then you weren't as drunk as you seemed?"
"Didn't you catch me making a move the minute you created a diversion?
Of course, I'd no idea you were friendly--"
"Look here," P. Sybarite interrupted sharply: "doesn't it hurt you to
talk?"
"No--helps me forget this ache."
"All right, then--tell me how this came about. What has Red November
got on you, to make him so anxious--?"
"Nothing, as far as I know; unless it was Brian Shaynon's doing--"
"A-ah!"
"You know that old blighter?"
"Slightly--very slightly."
"Friend of yours?"
"Not exactly."
The accent of P. Sybarite's laugh rendered the disclaimer conclusive.
"Glad to hear that," said the boy gravely: "I'd despise to be beholden
to any friend of his ..."
"Well.... But what's the trouble between you and old man Shaynon?"
"Search me--unless he thought I was spying on him.
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