ley a pig iss, und you—oh, py golly! you—I could not you pelief. Ve vill vait for Mister Brett."
He was closing the door again, when MacDonald put his foot against the jamb and, leaning toward Dutchy, said quickly, in an undertone:
"Look here, Dutchy, you're going too far. If I couldn't see any farther than you, I'd wear glasses. Now's the time to make your deal. I'll help you see? You can get anything out of the boys now, but you push them too far and they'll pull the whole outfit down over your ears. You say what you want, and I'll get it for you."
Dutchy looked meditatively into MacDonald's face, and shook his head with a sad smile of wisdom.
"I could not you pelief," he repeated.
"You don't have to. You don't have to believe anybody. Whatever you want us to do we'll do before you let us in to eat. You can't lose. What do you say?"
Mr. Damrosch scratched his head pensively, without taking his eyes off the dispatcher. After a minute he tapped MacDonald on the shoulder.
"Vell," he announced, "I vill tell you. Listen."
MacDonald listened—incredulously. Then he whistled a low, long-drawn-out note of consternation.
"Well, you've got a nerve!" he gasped. "What do you think, eh? The boys'll never—" He stopped suddenly, a smile came over his face, and he chuckled softly to himself. "Dutchy, you're great! It'll be meat for the boys to make Thornley stand for it. That's what you want to do—make Thornley stand
