The Bodymaster 6	The Bodymaster 7	The Bodymaster 8

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.”

“You have your back answer quick enough.”

“Yes, I was always quick of speech.”

“Are you quick of action?”

“I have had that name among those that knew me best.”

“Well, we may try you sooner than you think. Have you heard anything of the lodge in these parts?”

“I’ve heard that it takes a man to be a brother.”

“True for you, Mr. McMurdo. Why did you leave Chicago?”

“I’m damned if I tell you that!”

McGinty opened his eyes. He was not used to being answered in such fashion, and it amused him. “Why won’t you tell me?”

“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?”

“Well, it means to pass the dollars out into circulation. Then he said he would split. Maybe he did split. I didn’t wait to see. I just killed him and lighted out for the coal country.”

“Why the coal country?”

“’Cause I’d read in the papers that they weren’t too particular in those parts.”

McGinty laughed. “You were first a coiner and then a murderer, and you came to these parts because you thought you’d be welcome.”

“That’s about the size of it,” McMurdo answered.

“Well, I guess you’ll go far. Say, can you make those dollars yet?”

McMurdo took half a dozen from his pocket. “Those never passed the Philadelphia mint,” said he.

“You don’t say!” McGinty held them to the light in his enormous hand, which was hairy as a gorilla’s. “I can see no difference. Gar! you’ll be a mighty useful brother, I’m thinking! We can do with a bad man or two among us, Friend McMurdo: for there are times when we have to take our own part. We’d soon be against the wall if we didn’t shove back at those that were pushing us.”

“Well, I guess I’ll do my share of shoving with the rest of the boys.”

“You seem to have a good nerve. You didn’t squirm when I shoved this gun at you.”

“It was not me that was in danger.”

“Who then?”

“It was you, Councillor.” McMurdo drew a cocked pistol from the side pocket of his pea-jacket. “I was covering you all the time. I guess my shot would have been as quick as yours.”

“By Gar!” McGinty flushed an angry red and then burst into a roar of laughter. “Say, we’ve had no such holy terror come to hand this many a year. I reckon the lodge will learn to be proud of you. . . . Well, what the hell do you want? And can’t I speak alone with a gentleman for five minutes but you must butt in on us?”

The Bodymaster 6	The Bodymaster 7	The Bodymaster 8