Come in here for
a moment, behind the bar."
There was a small room there, lined with barrels. McGinty
carefully closed the door, and then seated himself on one of
them, biting thoughtfully on his cigar and surveying his
companion with those disquieting eyes. For a couple of minutes
he sat in complete silence. McMurdo bore the inspection
cheerfully, one hand in his coat pocket, the other twisting his
brown moustache. Suddenly McGinty stooped and produced a
wicked-looking revolver.
"See here, my joker," said he, "if I thought you were playing any
game on us, it would be short work for you."
"This is a strange welcome," McMurdo answered with some dignity,
"for the Bodymaster of a lodge of Freemen to give to a stranger
brother."
"Ay, but it's just that same that you have to prove," said
McGinty, "and God help you if you fail! Where were you made?"
"Lodge 29, Chicago."
"When?"
"June 24, 1872."
"What Bodymaster?"
"James H. Scott."
"Who is your district ruler?"
"Bartholomew Wilson."
"Hum! You seem glib enough in your tests. What are you doing
here?"
"Working, the same as you--but a poorer job.
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