McGuffey, smothered in guilt, felt nevertheless that he had to
stand by his guns, so to speak. "Stay through, if you feel like
it," he retorted. "Where d'ye get that chatter? Ain't I free,
white, an' twenty-one year old?"

Mr. Gibney was really hurt. "You poor boob," he murmured. "It's
the old game o' settin' a beggar on horseback an' seein' him ride
to the devil, or slippin' a gold ring in a pig's nose. An' I
figured you was my friend!"

"Well, ain't I?"

"Fooey! Fooey! Don't talk to me. You'd sell out your own mother."

"Them's fightin' words, Gib."

"Shut up."

"Gib, you tryin' to pick a fight with me?"

"No, but I would if I thought I wouldn't git a footrace instead,"
Gibney rejoined scathingly. "Cripes, what a double-crossin' I
been handed! Honest, Bart, when it comes to that sort o' work
Scraggs is in his infancy. You sure take the cake."

"I ain't got the heart to clout you an' make you eat them words,"
Mr. McGuffey declared sorrowfully.

"You mean you ain't got the guts," Mr. Gibney corrected him.