What's the trouble?
Any complaint to make?
If so, I'm here to listen." Herzog's teeth showed in a rat-like grin of malice.
"Yes, you'll listen, all right enough," he sneered.

"I've named you, and that goes! You're a thief, Armstrong, and this proves it! Look!" From behind his back, where he had been holding it, he produced the little morocco-covered book.

Right in Armstrong's face he shook it, with an oath.
"Steal, will you ?" he jibed.

"For it's the same thing--no difference whether you picked it out of Mr.Flint's pocket or found it on the floor here, and tried to keep it! Steal, eh?
Hold it for some possible reward?
You skunk! Lucky you haven't brains enough to make out what's in it! Thought you'd keep it, did you?
But you weren't smart enough, Armstrong--no, not quite smart enough for me! After looking the whole place over, I thought I'd have a go at a few pockets--and, you see?
Oh, you'll have to get up early to beat _me_ at the game you--you thief!" With the last word, he raised the book and struck the young man a blistering welt across the face with it.
Armstrong fell back, against the bench, perfectly livid, with the wale of the blow standing out red and distinct across his cheek.

Then he went pale as death, and staggered as though about to faint.
"God--God in heaven!" he gasped.