The stranger took up his fallen hat, turned malevolently upon Peter, and hissed: "All right, you hog! You will pay dear for such an insult!" He turned toward Eli. "You scoundrel," he shouted, "your master keeps you here to insult people--" but he did not finish the sentence, so wroth was he in his anger. Peter rubbed his hands so rapidly that it would be a wild guess to say whether he was doing it in jest or in earnest. The stranger proceeded toward the front door. "Wait!" exclaimed Peter, as the stranger was about to make his exit. The young man turned about, very deliberately, in his tracks, leered at Peter as if he would again hurl a terrible threat at him, but he said nothing. "Mike Barton," commanded Peter, for that is whom the young man proved to be, "come to my office." Whereupon, Peter led the way, and Mike Barton followed him to the little black office. Peter removed his cap, resumed his pipe, and sat down, wheezing like an asthmatic pup, near his place of espionage; and he looked curiously at Mike, who had taken a seat unbidden. "What was the trouble, Mike?" he asked. "I simply sought to pass him to get to your office, when he confronted me with the insulting remark, 'No pimps allowed in there--your office--without permission of the boss.'" "He's a good clerk, Mike; he is; and he serves me well." "Too well, Mr. Dieman, for your safety." "Ha, ha! Well, he has my instructions, and you know the password to this office." "I do, sir; but I resent the insult." "All right, my boy, it's over with now; Eli is a good one for me, you know." "I reckon he is," returned Mike. "Now, what can I do for you?" asked Peter, eyeing Mike with one of his singularly inquisitorial stares, which gave Mike a spell of the fidgets. "I was sent here by the keeper of our place to know the outlook for a continuance of police protection," he replied without any circumlocution about saying what he had in mind. "Eh!" Peter ejaculated. "Yes; we want to know--or they want to know. What's the prospects?" "Eh?" "What's the prospects? is my question," said Mike, surlily, put out by the evasiveness of Peter. "Hey?" "You have my question." "I have." "Then answer me." "How much more is it worth?" "You and your gang are getting enough already," retorted Mike. "Don't get gay, young man; don't get gay," said Peter, raising his furzy eyebrows with surprise. "You people are in business--I'm in business--we're all in business--for money." "Yes, Peter, yes; all in business--all in business--a nasty thing it is, sir, this grafting business," returned Mike. "But my employers are getting tired of having their legs pulled so often. All the profits already go to your bunch--how can they pay any more?" "Eh, young man, you are talking a little too gay--a little too gay, for one of your experience; hey?" "Well, it's the truth," answered Mike.