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O'HARA listened impatiently to the staccato rattle of their Italian tongues. His sense of importance was impaired. His vanity was a tender plant growing in strange soil. Once or twice he tried to break in, but failed to impress his presence upon either of the men. He was conscious in his dull way that he was in his place--where he had been put. Just a servant of no great importance, he, Con O'Hara, a lieutenant of the Five Pointers.
"Say, I'm in this, ain't I?" he walled, but they did not notice him. "You don't know when you've got a good guy. Hey, Tony, you're not treating me square."