to jail, Jim! Don't send me to jail!—I'll do it tomorrow—at dawn, Jim, unless it rains—
"An' Jim—you mean that, about tires for my safety?"
"You'll get your tires, all right—unless you go to jail. And you'll go to jail if you don't make good, or if you get caught!"
That afternoon Rowe and Luke Taylor sat for long in the car on the siding at Pancake, shades drawn tight to keep out the sun, electric fans doing their best with the air. Rowe talked rapidly, careful of sequence and the other followed him closely.
Later Jim Harris came in and the three talked. Before Jim rose to go, he said:
"This feeling against her works for you. I've never seen so much resentment. Public opinion sure is playing into your hands, Mr. Taylor!"
"Public opinion, hell!" snapped Luke. "I knew public opinion before you were born, Harris. Business is business. Sometimes it has to get a little rough, but don't try to fool me, Harris; don't try to pull any wool over my eyes."
With a close approach to confusion Jim made his exit while Phil Rowe covered his embarrassment, for his employer's scornful gaze had included him, by fussing with a broken cigar.
