there more than he has to--dead scared of the old man, who's about the
only soul he is afraid of on earth. The O.C.'s awful sarcastic with him
at times, and that gets Burke's goat properly. He sure does hate getting
a choke-off from the old man."

He grinned guiltily. "That's why he prefers to wash the family linen
strictly at home--what little there is. But, sarcasm and all, the O.C.
gives him credit for being onto his job--and it's coming to him, too.
He's quick acting and he's got the Criminal Code well-nigh by heart.
Regular blood-hound when he starts in working up a case."

He yawned, and rising stiffly to his feet stretched his cramped limbs.
"We-ll! Reddy, my giddy young hopeful!--Now we've fallen on each other's
ruddy necks and kissed and wept and had a heart-to-heart talk we'll--"

"Aw, quit making game, Yorkey! Is it a go? You know what I said?"

Strangely compelling, Yorke found that bruised, eager, wistful young
face, with its earnest, honest eyes. "All right!" he agreed, with
languid bonhomie. "You've certainly earned the office of Dictator, and,
as I remarked--we really have quite a lot in common. Mind, though, you
don't repent of your bargain. One thing!" the curved, defiant nostrils
dilated faintly, "Seems the world always has use for us runagates in one
capacity. It's just the likes of us that compose the rank and file of
most of the Empire's military police forces. Who makes the best M.P.
man, executing duty, say, in a critical life-and-death hazard? The
cautious, upright, model young man, with a tender regard for a whole skin
and a Glorious Future? Or the poor devil who's lost all, and doesn't
care a d----n? We tackle the world's dangerous, dirty criminal work
and--swank and all--Society don't want to forget it."