"Try a coffin-nail, Bud? No? Well, I guess y' couldn't smoke good with a
mouth on ye like that."
"Who did it, Bud?" questioned Spike eagerly. "Who was it?"
"Hush up, Kid, hush up!" said Soapy, viewing M'Ginnis's cuts and bruises
with glistening eyes. "I guess that guy's layin' around somewheres
waitin' f'r th' coroner--Bud wouldn't let him make such a holy mess
of his face an' get away with it--not much! Bud's a killer, I know
that--don't I, Bud?"
"You close up that dog's head o' yours, Soapy, or by--"
"'S all right, Bud, 's all right. Don't get peeved; I'll close up
tighter 'n a clam, only--it's kinder tough about them teeth--"
"Are ye goin' t' cut it out or shall--"
"Aw, calm down, Bud, calm down! Take a drink; it'll do ye good." And
filling a glass with rye whisky, Soapy set it before M'Ginnis, who
cursed him, took it up, and turned to Spike.
"Fill it up, Kid," he commanded.
"Not me, Bud, I--I ain't here for that," said Spike. "I come t' tell ye
as some dirty guy's been an' blown th' game on me t' Hermy; she--she
knows everything, an' to-night she--drove me away from her--"
"Did she, Kid, oh, did she?" said M'Ginnis, a new note of eagerness in
his voice.
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