Larry’s composed yet watchful gaze was still on Barney.  “You’re not really left in such a bad way.  Barney here is ready to take charge.”

“You bet I am!” Barney flamed at him, his hands clenching.  “And the bunch won’t lose by the change, you bet!  The bunch always thought you were an ace—­and I always knew you were a two-spot.  And now they’ll see I was right—­that you were always yellow!”

Larry still leaned against the safe in the same posture of seeming ease, but he expected Barney to strike at any moment, and held himself in readiness for a flashing fist.  Barney had been hard to hold in leash in the old days; now that all ties of partnership were broken, he saw in those small gleaming eyes a defiance and a hatred that henceforth had no reason for restraint.  And he knew that Barney was shrewd, grimly tenacious, and limitless in self-confidence and ambition.

“And listen to this, too, Larry Brainard,” Barney’s temper carried him on.  “Don’t you mix in and try any preaching on Maggie.”  He half turned his head jealously.  “Maggie, don’t you listen to any of this boob’s Salvation Army talk!”

Maggie did not at once respond, but stood gazing at the two confronting figures.  To her they were an oddly dissimilar pair:  Barney in the smartest clothes that an over-smart Broadway tailor could create, and Larry in the shapeless garments that were the State’s gift to him on leaving prison.

“Maggie,” he repeated, “don’t you listen to this boob’s talk!”

“I’ll do just as I please, Barney.”

“But you’re going to come our way?” he demanded.

“Of course.”

He turned back to Larry.  “You hear that?  You leave Maggie alone!”

Larry did not answer, though his temper was rising.  He looked over Barney’s head at Maggie’s father.

“Jimmie,” he remarked in his same even voice, “anything more you’d like to say?”

“I’m through.”

“Then,” said Larry, “better lead your new commander-in-chief out of here, or I’ll carry him out and spank him.”

“What’s that?” snarled Barney.

“Get out!” Larry ordered, in a voice suddenly like steel.

Barney’s fist swung viciously at Larry’s head.  It did not land, because Larry’s head was elsewhere.  Larry did not take advantage of the opening to strike back, but as the fist flashed by he seized the wrist, and in the same instant he seized the other wrist.  The next moment he held Barney helpless in a twisting, torturing grip that he had learned from one of his non-Christian friends at the Y.M.C.A.

“Barney—­are you going to walk out, or shall I kick you out?”

Barney’s answer came after a moment through gritted teeth:  “I’ll walk out—­but I’ll get you for this!”

“I know you’ll try, Barney.  And I know you’ll try to get me behind my back.”  Larry loosed his grip.  “Good-night.”

Barney backed glowering to the door; and Old Jimmie, his gray face an expressionless mask, silently followed him out.