THAT talks." Dyke did not reply.

He filled another pony of whiskey and drank it in two gulps.

His frown had lowered to a scowl, his face was a dark red, his head had sunk, bull-like, between his massive shoulders; without winking he gazed long and with troubled eyes at his knotted, muscular hands, lying open on the table before him, idle, their occupation gone.
Presley forgot his black lead.

He listened to Caraher.

Through the open door he caught a glimpse of Dyke's back, broad, muscled, bowed down, the great shoulders stooping.
The whole drama of the doubled freight rate leaped salient and distinct in the eye of his mind.