Aside from the words he had spoken, since he entered the room he had made
no more noise than a phantom.

"You're him, all right," he repeated, balancing back in the chair. But he
gathered his toes under him, so that he remained continually poised in
spite of the seeming awkwardness of his position.

"Who am I?" asked Terry.

"Why, Black Jack's kid. It's printed in big type all over you."

His keen eyes continued to bore at Terry as though he were striving to
read features beneath a mask. Terry could see his visitor's face more
clearly now. It was square, with a powerfully muscled jaw and features
that had a battered look. Suddenly he teetered forward in his chair and
dropped his elbows aggressively on his knees.

"D'you know what they're talking about downstairs?"

"Haven't the slightest idea."

"You ain't! The old lady is trying to fix up a bad time for you."

"She's raising a crowd?"

"Doing her best. I dunno what it'll come to. The boys are stirring a
little. But I think it'll be all words and no action. Four-flushers, most
of 'em. Besides, they say you bumped old Minter for a goal; and they
don't like the idea of messing up with you. They'll just talk. If they