"
"Better keep away then."
"I suppose that's a hint--a bull-pup hint."
Silence from inside, while the worker stirred something boiling over a
flame, poured a dark fluid from one retort into another, dropped in a
drop or two of something from a small vial inflammatorily labelled, and
started an electric motor in a corner. Chester could see the shine of
perspiration on the smooth brow below the coppery hair, and drops
standing like dew on the broad white chest from which the open shirt was
turned widely back.
"It must be about a hundred and fifty Fahrenheit in there," he
commented. Burns grunted an assent. "It's only eighty-four on our porch,
and growing cooler every minute. The things we have to drink are just
above thirty-two, right off the ice." Chester's words were carefully
chosen.
"Dangerous extremes. But I wouldn't mind having a pint or two of
something cold. Go, bring it to me."
"Well, I like that."
"So'll I, I hope."
Chester laughed and strolled away. When he returned he carried a big
crystal pitcher filled with a pleasantly frothing home-made amber brew
in which ice tinkled. With him came Jordan King. Chester shoved aside
the screen and pushed the pitcher inside, accompanied by a glass which
Winifred had insisted on sending.
Burns caught up the pitcher, drank thirstily, drew his arm across his
mouth and grinned through the window, meeting Jordan King's smiling gaze
in return.
"Company manners don't go when your hands are black, eh?" remarked the
man inside.
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