It'd be a shame to let you go to waste simply raising calluses on your
hands."

"You talk well," sighed Terry, "but you can't convince me."

"Convince you? Hell, I ain't trying to convince your father's son. You're
like Black Jack. You got to find out yourself. We was with a Mick, once.
Red-headed devil, he was. I says to Black Jack: 'Don't crack no jokes
about the Irish around this guy!'

"'Why not?' says your dad.

"'Because there'd be an explosion,' says I.

"'H'm,' says Black Jack, and lifts his eyebrows in a way he had of doing.

"And the first thing he does is to try a joke on the Irish right in front
of the Mick. Well, there was an explosion, well enough."

"What happened?" asked Terry, carried away with curiosity.

"What generally happened, kid, when somebody acted up in front of your
dad?" From the air he secured an imaginary morsel between stubby thumb
and forefinger and then blew the imaginary particle into empty space.

"He killed him?" asked Terry hoarsely.

"No," said Denver, "he didn't do that. He just broke his heart for him.
Kicked the gat out of the hand of the poor stiff and wrestled with him.
Black Jack was a wildcat when it come to fighting with his hands. When he