"Old Minter had a name. Ain't I had my run-in with him? He was smooth
with a cannon. And fast as a snake's tongue. But they say you beat him
fair and square. Well, well, I call that a snappy start in the world!"

Terry was silent, but his companion refused to be chilled.

"That's Black Jack over again," he said. "No wind about what he'd done.
No jabber about what he was going to do. But when you wanted something
done, go to Black Jack. Bam! There it was done clean for you and no talk
afterward. Oh, he was a bird, was your old man. And you take after him,
right enough!"

A voice rose in Terry. He wanted to argue. He wanted to explain. It was
not that he felt any consuming shame because he was the son of Black Jack
Hollis. But there was a sort of foster parenthood to which he owed a
clean-minded allegiance--the fiction of the Colby blood. He had
worshipped that thought for twenty years. He could not discard it in an
instant.

Denver was breezing on in his quick, husky voice, so carefully toned that
it barely served to reach Terry.

"I been waiting for a pal like you, kid. And here's where we hit it off.
You don't know much about the game, I guess? Neither did Black Jack. As a
peterman he was a loud ha-ha; as a damper-getter he was just an amateur;
as a heel or a houseman, well, them things were just outside him. When it
come to the gorilla stuff, he was there a million, though. And when there
was a call for fast, quick, soft work, Black Jack was the man. Kid, I can
see that you're cut right on his pattern. And here's where you come in