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Updated: August 27, 2024
"How do you make that out?" coolly. "Do you know where your man Bolles can be found?" "Bolles? Ah, I begin to see. What do you want of him?" "We want the esteemed honor of his company at this reunion," dryly. Bolles? McQuade smiled. He was only too glad to accommodate them. If they wanted Bolles they should have him. Bolles would cut them in two.
Some call it Black-beetle Hole, and then again some call it the Hole of the Black-beetles. 'Yer after no good, Mr. Fitzgerald, says Mrs. McQuade, whose husband keeps the junk-shop over the Hole, putting her malicious face out of the window. "'You're the woman I want, Mrs. McQuade, says I. 'Don't be puttin' your foot in the house, says she.
The three men sat down, in what might be described as a one-two-three attitude: domination, tacit acceptance of this domination, and servility. "Do you know Richard Warrington, the playwriter?" "That snob? Yes, I know who he is, and I'd like to punch his head for him, too." McQuade smiled. This manifest rancor on Bolles' part would make things easier than he thought. "Well, listen.
McQuade drove on, and Warrington resumed his interrupted study of the sidewalk. McQuade thought nothing more about the fellow who wrote plays, and the dramatist had no place in his mind for the petty affairs of the politician. Fate, however, moves quite as certainly and mysteriously as the cosmic law. The bitter feud between these two men began with their dogs.
You have finally succeeded, and your dog has been licked soundly. You ought to be satisfied." Warrington took Jove under his arm and pressed toward the door, followed by Bennington, who was also in a fine rage. The dog, bloody and excited, still struggled, though the brutal kick had winded him. McQuade was no fool.
The Benningtons want you to come up at once instead of next week." Warrington brightened perceptibly. He went to work, but his heart wasn't in it. The interview with McQuade insisted upon recurring. Why hadn't he walked out without any comment whatever? Silence would have crushed McQuade. He knew that McQuade could not back up this threat; it was only a threat. Bah!
The white bulldog trotted along behind, his tongue lolling out of his mouth and his eyes heavy. The two men sat down in a corner under an electric fan; the dog crawled under the table, grateful for the cold stone tiling. "What do you know about this fellow Warrington?" asked McQuade, tossing his hat on one of the unoccupied chairs. "The fellow who writes plays?" "Yes. What do you know about him?"
"You've been away so long you haven't heard of him. He handles the dagos during election. Well, McQuade was asking all sorts of questions about you. Asked if you gambled, or drank, or ran around after women." Warrington no longer leaned back in his chair. His body assumed an alert angle. "They all went up to McQuade's office. The typewriter is a niece of mine.
She reviewed all the meetings between Kate and Warrington. Never had her eyes discerned evidence of anything other than frank good fellowship. She searched painfully; there was not a single glance, a single smile upon which she could build a guilty alliance. And yet this writer affirmed ... Oh, it was monstrous! Those rumors she had heard months ago! The telephone call from McQuade!
If it's dagos, I'll have plenty in hand in November." "I shall want you to go to New York," said McQuade. "New York or San Francisco, so long as some one foots the bills." "I'll foot 'em," agreed McQuade. "Hustle your dinner. We'll wait for you at the bar." Bolles ordered. A job for McQuade that took him to New York meant money, money and a good time.
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