“It ain’t goin’ to. How often have I got to ding that into your head? It ain’t goin’ to.”
“Perhaps I’m over-anxious,” Caine defended himself, “But you must remember, practically all my money is in Steeloid. On your recommendation I have put every available dollar in it. So have Standish and a half dozen others I know.”
“Then lay back an’ be happy,” advised Conover, “After that bill is smashed an’ the public sees Steeloid is on the ground to stay, the stock’ll take another big hop. If you an’ Standish an’ the others have a few thousands to use in buyin’ on margin you’ll clean up a good lookin’ pile. I’ve got other deals on now that make Steeloid look like thirty cents. So I ain’t lyin’ awake worryin’ on my own account. It’s as much for you fellers as for myself that I’m goin’ to get down to work on the Blacarda matter, as soon as I come back from my vacation. It’ll mean a week or two of big work, on the quiet. Then the bill’s comin’ up an’—goin’ down for keeps.”
“You’re awfully good to give us these tips,” said Caine “And we all appreciate it. But aren’t you afraid Blacarda may attack some other interests of yours as well as Steeloid? He hates you; and he is not the sort of a man to confine himself to a single line of revenge.”
“There’s where you’re wrong, son,” answered Conover, “The trouble with you people is, you get all your learnin’ from books wrote by other folks as stoopid as yourselves. The thing to study ain’t a book. It’s your feller-man. Then there’d be fewer folks took in by gold-brick games. Look at me, now, f’r instance. I never read a book clear through in my life. But there ain’t a man of my ’quaintance I haven’t read through. So, they’re as easy for me to read as a primer. Now, you look at Blacarda as a sort of man who’s li’ble to attack me from a dozen sides at once. That’s ’cause you can’t read him. I can. An’ I know what he’s li’ble to do an’ what he ain’t. Blacarda b’longs to the King Cobra class. Harmless as a kitten to them that knows where his poison’s hid, an’ only dang’rous to folks that picks him up by the wrong end.”
Caleb, warming to his theme, leaned back against the corner of the table and laid down the coat he was folding.
“Men who read men,” said he, oracularly, “rule men. Men who read books are ruled by the folks who wrote them. That’s the diff’rence. Let me explain what I mean by what I said ’bout cobras. I had to run down to Noo York last fall on business. I had a couple of hours on my hands an’ I went up for a look at the Bronx Zoo, there. I went into a squat, Dago-lookin’ joint called the ‘Rept’l House.’ Full of snakes and crawly, slimy things. Big crowd in front of one glass cage. Only snake in that cage was a big, long, brown critter with an eye that wa’nt good to look at. The sign said he was a King Cobra an’ habitated somewhere or other. The attendant wanted to wash the winders of that cage from the inside. What does he do? Does he put his arms in an’ wiggle a mop within reach of Mister King Cobra? Not him. He, or his boss, I guess, had learned to read snakes like I read men. What does he do? He slaps open a little door in the back of the cage, slings in a two-foot black snake an’ slams shut the door, quicker’n scat, before the Cobra knows what’s up. There lays the little black snake wrigglin’, scared like, on the floor of the cage among a lot of little red lizards that’s runnin’ ’round in the sand.
“The King Cobra lifts up till his head’s about six foot above ground, an’ he looks down at the wrigglin’ black snake, like he was sizin’ up whether the little feller has any fight in him or not. An’ say! It was ’nough to give a feller the creeps to see that cobra-snake’s eye as he watched ’tother. Then, he seems to make up his mind the black snake ain’t bent on c’mittin’ sooside by beginnin’ the fight. So down swoops the King Cobra with a sort of rustly, swishin’ rush; an’ he grabs the little snake around the middle. No—not by the head or tail. He’s more mad than hungry. So he grabs him by the middle. An’ he hangs on.
“Now what does the attendant do? He opens the door at the back, kneels on the threshold, leanin’ out right above the King Cobra, an’ ca’mly begins washin’ the winders with his long mop. Ev’ry swipe that man makes at the glass, his hand comes within a foot of the Cobra. But he didn’t even look at the big, pizenous brute coiled up there below his hand. He goes on washin’ the winder like there wasn’t a snake within ten miles.”
“But,” asked Caine, interested in spite of himself, “there was surely danger that the Cobra might drop the little snake and strike at the man? If—”