Clancy thrust head and shoulders aggressively across the table.

"You will--if you know what's good for you!" he said evenly. "And,
what's more, there's a little job you're going to break your hand in on
to-night."

"No! No, no! I can't! I can't!" Smarlinghue flung out his arms
imploringly.

Clancy lowered his voice.

"Cut that out!" he snapped viciously. "What's the matter with you!
You'll be well paid for it--_and have police protection_. You ought to
know what that'll mean to you--eh? You live like a gutter-snipe
here--half starved most of the time, for all you can get out of those
ungodly daubs!"

A curious dignity came to Smarlinghue. He sat upright.

"It is my art," he said. "I have starved for it many years. Some day I
will get recognition. Some day I--"

"Art--hell!" sneered Clancy; and then he laughed coarsely, as, his
fingers prodding under the miscellany of articles on the table, he
suddenly held up a hypodermic syringe. "This is _your_ art, my bucko!
Why, you poor boob, don't you think I know you! Cocaine's the one thing
on earth you live for. You're stewed to the eyes with it now. Here, just
watch me! Suppose"--he caught the syringe in a quick grip between the
fingers of both hands--"suppose I just put this little toy out of
commission now, and--"