“Because no brother may tell another a lie.”
“Then the truth is too bad to tell?”
“You can put it that way if you like.”
“See here, mister, you can’t expect me, as Bodymaster, to pass into the lodge a man for whose past he can’t answer.”
McMurdo looked puzzled. Then he took a worn newspaper cutting from an inner pocket.
“You wouldn’t squeal on a fellow?” said he.
“I’ll wipe my hand across your face if you say such words to me!” cried McGinty hotly.
“You are right, Councillor,” said McMurdo meekly. “I should apologize. I spoke without thought. Well, I know that I am safe in your hands. Look at that clipping.”
McGinty glanced his eyes over the account of the shooting of one Jonas Pinto, in the Lake Saloon, Market Street, Chicago, in the New Year week of 1874.
“Your work?” he asked, as he handed back the paper.
McMurdo nodded.
“Why did you shoot him?”
“I was helping Uncle Sam to make dollars. Maybe mine were not as good gold as his, but they looked as well and were cheaper to make. This man Pinto helped me to shove the queer—”
“To do what?”