"Boss of the timber crew on the east side
of Number Ten? I was planning on riding out to-morrow for a word with
you, Woods."
"So?" cried Woods. "What's the matter with havin' that word to-night?"
"Haven't time," was the simple rejoinder. "I'm about due across the
street now; at Whitey Wimble's place."
"Which is where you belong," growled Woods, his under jaw thrust
forward, his whole attitude charged with quarrelsome intent. "Over at
the White Rat's with the rest of the Willies!"
The ever-ready Packard temper was getting into Steve's head, beating in
his temples, pounding along his pulses. He had never had a man bait
him like that before. But he strove to remember Blenham only, to take
stock of the fact that this was a bit of Blenham's game, and that any
trouble with another than Blenham was to be avoided at this juncture.
So, though the color was rising into his face and a little flicker of
fire came into his eyes, he said briefly:
"Then I'd better go across, hadn't I? See you in the morning, Woods."
But there is always the word to whip the hot blood into the coolest
head, to snare a man's caution out of him and inject fury in its stead,
and Joe Woods, a downright man and never a subtle, put his tongue to
it. On the instant Packard gave over thought of such side issues as a
man named Blenham and hidden bank-notes.
He cried out inarticulately and leaped forward and struck.
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