“When you want to talk with me after this use a long-distance telephone.
Don’t ever let anyone lay hands on my horse again. You hear?”
The piggish eyes glittered again. This time a steely glitter. His hands
were folded upon his huge stomach, and there was nothing that moved
about him except the lids of his eyes, but somehow he contrived to give
an impression of deadly menace, like a fat spider, sitting in its web,
waiting for the fly to entangle itself a trifle deeper.
“My name is Ed Boswell,” he piped, in his thin voice, “and you’ll hear
more of it if you stay hereabouts. I do what I want to do, and what I
can’t do myself I have others do for me. I’m not used to being
threatened.”