That "my man!" thing was a trifle more than I could take! I throws my feet up on Genaro's desk and give this guy a long, careless once over, puttin' everything I had on the stare.
"I ain't got no more idea who you are," I tells him finally, "than a oyster has of roller-skatin'. Who are you? I never seen your face on no postage stamps!"
"Oh, I say!" he busts out, registerin' wild indignation. "Don't you ever read the newspapers?"
"Sure!" I says. "But then, escapin' convicts don't get much space in 'em any more! At that, I think I know you now, though."
"I should think you jolly well would!" he comes back, calmin' down some. "Why—"
"Yes!" I goes on. "I got you. I've met so many from your lodge it's funny I didn't recognize the high signs right away. You're a big, tinhorn four-flusher!"
Sweet Cookie!
His face did a Georgie Cohan, gettin' red, white and blue by turns, and he pawed the air, gaspin' for breath like a fat piano mover. Before he can get set for a comeback, they's a loud crash outside the door, followed by the well known dull thud. In another minute Kid Scanlan walks in, draggin' somethin' after him by the back of the neck.
"Look what I found!" chirps the Kid, droppin' the thing on the floor.
"By Jove!" squeals the big guy. "He's killed my dresser!"