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If I do let you out you'll have to road-brand me two hundred, or pay cash. My herd ain't worrying me it's moving all the time. It's through that other fence by now. An' if I have to keep my outfit here to pen you in or shoot you off I can send to the JD for a gang to push the herd. Don't make no mistake: yo're getting off easy. Suppose one of my men had been killed at the fence what then?"
I think you'll find a metallic oscillator in there. Analyze it. Might be useful." Harry turned the box over in his hands. "Probably has a timer in it to start it.... Well.... That helps." "What do you mean?" "I've got a pretty good idea who put it here. Older kid. Nineteen maybe twenty. Seemed like a nice lad, too. Didn't take him for a JD. Can't trust anyone these days. Thanks, Mike.
If you didn't, the JD gangs would have cleaned you all out long ago." Harry kept looking at the ceiling, and Mike the Angel smiled quietly at his fingernails. The detective sergeant sighed again. "Sure, we'd like to have some of the gadgets that you and the other operators on the Row have worked out, Harry. But I'm in no position to take 'em away from you.
Basil Wallingford's ruddy face came on. "I see you're still alive," he said. "What in the bloody blazes happened last night?" Mike sighed and told him. "In other words," he ended up, "just the usual sort of JD stuff we have to put up with these days. Nothing new, and nothing to worry about." "You almost got killed," Wallingford pointed out.
He was hunched over a little, his small, bright eyes peering steadily at Mike the Angel from beneath shaggy, silvered brows. There was no pleading in those eyes only confidence. Next to Old Harry was a kid sixteen, maybe seventeen. He had the JD stamp on his face: a look of cold, hard arrogance that barely concealed the uncertainty and fear beneath.
I figured maybe your lab boys could tell where the rocket came from." "What happened?" the cop asked. Mike told him, omitting nothing except the details of his conversation with Wallingford. "The way I see it," he finished, "whoever it was phoned me to make sure I was in the room and then went out and fired a rocket at my window." "What makes you think it was a JD?" Cowder asked.
Suppose you lick us, which you won't can you lick all the rest of us, the JD, Wallace's, Double-Arrow, C-80, Cross-O-Cross, an' the others! That's just what it amounts to, an' you better stop right now, before somebody gets killed. You know what that means in this section. Yo're six to our eight, you ain't got a drink in that shack, an' you dasn't try to get one.
I should say that Jerry wrote in a very different way to that in which he spoke, and it seemed to me that when he got a pen in his hand he was no longer the rough sailor, but the educated man he had once been before he got into bad ways and ran off to sea. He signed his letter "JD," and told me to send my answer to the post-office, but on no account to direct my letter by the name I knew him by.
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