“Getting hungry?” I jeered. “Let me tell you what we are going to have for dinner. I have just been down and seen the preparations. Now, listen: first, caviare on toast; then, clam bouillon; and creamed lobster; and tinned lamb chops with French peas—you know, the peas that melt in one’s mouth; and California asparagus with mayonnaise; and—oh, I forgot to mention fried potatoes and cold pork and beans; and peach pie; and coffee, real coffee. Doesn’t it make you hungry for your East Side? And, say, think of the free lunch going to waste right now in a thousand saloons in good old New York.” I had told him the truth. The dinner I described (principally coming out of tins and bottles, to be sure) was the dinner we were to eat. “Cut that,” he snarled. “I want to talk business with _you_.” “Right down to brass tacks,” I gibed. “Very well, when are you and the rest of your rats going to turn to?” “Cut that,” he reiterated. “I’ve got you where 1 want you now. Take it from me, I’m givin’ it straight. I’m not tellin’ you how, but I’ve got you under my thumb. When I come down on you, you’ll crack.” “Hell is full of cocksure rats like you,” I retorted; although I never dreamed how soon he would be writhing in the particular hell preparing for him. “Forget it,” he sneered back. “I’ve got you where I want you. I’m just tellin’ you, that’s all.” “Pardon me,” I replied, “when I tell you that I’m from Missouri. You’ll have to show _me_.” And as I thus talked the thought went through my mind of how I naturally sought out the phrases of his own vocabulary in order to make myself intelligible to him. The situation was bestial, with sixteen of our complement already gone into the dark; and the terms I employed, perforce, were terms of bestiality. And I thought, also, of I who was thus compelled to dismiss the dreams of the utopians, the visions of the poets, the king-thoughts of the king-thinkers, in a discussion with this ripened product of the New York City inferno. To him I must talk in the elemental terms of life and death, of food and water, of brutality and cruelty. “I give you your choice,” he went on. “Give in now, an’ you won’t be hurt, none of you.” “And if we don’t?” I dared airily. “You’ll be sorry you was ever born. You ain’t a mush-head, you’ve got a girl there that’s stuck on you. It’s about time you think of her. You ain’t altogether a mutt. You get my drive?” Ay, I did get it; and somehow, across my brain flashed a vision of all I had ever read and heard of the siege of the Legations at Peking, and of the plans of the white men for their womenkind in the event of the yellow hordes breaking through the last lines of defence. Ay, and the old steward got it; for I saw his black eyes glint murderously in their narrow, tilted slits. He knew the drift of the gangster’s meaning. “You get my drive?” the gangster repeated.