“I told you this was a bad idea,” McGee said to Grant the next morning. The Irishman waited, with ill-disguised impatience, while the turnkey played with the lock of Grant’s cell. Beside him, Sherman smiled grimly. Grant could only guess at what was going through his friend’s mind.
“I wouldn’t call it a complete disaster,” Grant said.
“Why, because you weren’t shot?” Sherman snapped. “Good God, Grant, what sort of foot-pad did you think you were?” He turned on the guard. “Dammit, man, are you palsied? Get that cell open!”
“Ease up on him, Sherman,” Grant said. “The poor man’s just trying to do his job.”
“And what made you think that this stunt of yours was your job?” Sherman scratched furiously at his beard. “I should have been the one to do this.”
“For God’s sake, gentlemen, hold your tongues.” D’Arcy McGee looked around him, as though he expected to find others listening besides the obviously interested turnkey. “Let this wait until we’re in Captain Gale’s office.”