There were two men in the room and they sat on opposite sides of the table. One was the master gambler; he had selected the one wooden chair in the room, and he sat back with his hands in his pockets, rocking the chair gently on two legs. He was in his shirt-sleeves, and the black, Indian-like hair fell forward in a lock that shaded the coldly staring eyes. The other man was the “mucker” of the yard watchman’s report, the man Plegg had been following. On the Grillage pay-roll he appeared as Simeon Backus, serving on the day shift as a muck shoveler in the eastern heading of the great tunnel. He sat in one of the upholstered chairs with a deep seat, and his deformities--the lopped shoulder and arms much too long for his body--were accentuated. His face, with its lines half obliterated by a ragged beard, lacked none of the villainous characteristics of the ingrained criminal; beady eyes that would look at nothing steadily, a retreating chin, a thin-lipped, acrid mouth. When Silas Plegg reached his spying place on the gallery, Dargin was speaking. “Cut it out, Simmy; cut it all out and get down to brass tacks!” he was growling. “Your hard job in the tunnel isn’t any skin off of me; and you get paid twice for it, at that.” “What little rake-off you give me for steerin’ the money-burners down here don’t cut no ice with me!” snapped the smaller man. “I’ve got bigger game to-night.” “Shoot,” said Dargin. “I’ve got a line on the new boss. Did you know he was down here lookin’ you over the other night?” “I saw him,” was the brief reply. “Well, he’s goin’ to run you out--clean up the shop--wipe off the slate.” “Who says he is?” “He says so, by cripes! I’ve got it straight. This here hell-hole’s got to be took off the map. It’s bu’stin’ up his gangs and robbin’ his men, and he ain’t goin’ to stand for no such. And say, Jack--_he’s got the old geezer behind him_!” “Grillage? Not in a thousand years, Simmy.” “I’m tellin’ you I got it straight. There’s a skirt in it this time.” “Cough it up.” “It’s this-away; that young cock-o’-the-walk’s goin’ to marry Grillage’s daughter--see?” “How do you know he is?” “There ain’t much that a bunch as big as ours don’t know about its bosses--or that it can’t find out if it tries. Vallory hadn’t hardly lit down on the job before ever’body knew that he got his boost from the inside--that it was all in the family. Why, hell; he’s nothin’ but an overgrowed kid!” “You talk too many, Simmy,” was the gruff interruption. “Get down to the face-cards and aces.” “All right, I will. Did you know Grillage is here?” “I knew he was coming.” “Well, he’s come--and he’s fetched the girl with him. You know what she tried to get him to do last fall, after Lushing was fool enough to bring that look-see crowd down here from the hotel?” “I know,” said Dargin. “She tried to get the old man to put the kibosh on us. He wouldn’t do it then; and he isn’t going to back Vallory now.”