"'Bout time to go now," said Tony."That damn-a Corrigan he be in the reever very quick."Burney started out of his trance with a grunt.He turned his head and gazed with a surprised and pained severity at his accomplice.He took the cigar partly from his mouth, but sucked it back again immediately, chewed it lovingly once or twice, and spoke, in virulent puffs, from the corner of his mouth:
"What is it, ye yaller haythen? Would ye lay contrivances against the enlightened races of the earth, ye instigator of illegal crimes? Would ye seek to persuade Martin Burney into the dirty tricks of an indecent Dago?
Would ye be for murderin' your benefactor, the good man that gives ye food and work? Take that, ye punkin-coloured assassin!"The torrent of Burney's indignation carried with it bodily assault.The toe of his shoe sent the would-be cutter of ropes tumbling from his seat.
Tony arose and fled.His vendetta he again relegated to the files of things that might have been.Beyond the boat he fled and away-away; he was afraid to remain.
Burney, with expanded chest, watched his late coplotter disappear.Then he, too, departed, setting his face in the direction of the Bronx.
In his wake was a rank and pernicious trail of noisome smoke that brought peace to his heart and drove the birds from the roadside into the deepest thickets.