"What kind uh hold-up game YOU playin', Mr.
Nolan?
If that's your name," he added fiercely.
Mack Nolan laughed to himself and rubbed the ash from his cigarette against the sole of his shoe.

"Why," he answered genially, "my game is holding up bootleggers--and crooked cops.

Speaking off-hand (which I don't often do) I should say you have a fine chance to sit in with me.
I'm just guessing, now," he added dryly, "but I'm tolerably good at guessing; a man's got to be, these days." "A man's got to do better than guess--with Casey Ryan," Casey remarked ominously.

"The last man that guessed Casey Ryan, guessed 'im plumb wrong." "Meaning that you'd refuse to help me round up bootleggers and the officers that protect them ?" A steel edge crept into Mack Nolan's voice.

He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his eyes boring into Casey's mind.
"Man, don't stall with me! You've got brains enough to know that if I were a crook I'd have held you up long before now.