As the Chinaman still wiggled nervously from one felt-slippered foot to the other, under the silent appraisal of Colt’s eyes, the fat man drew forth a lump of bills; and began to riffle them. Chang’s eyes beamed admiration on the handful of money.
“Listen, Chink!” said Colt, at last. “There’s a collie dog lives here. He’s mine. And I want him. Get that?”
“Tleve?” quavered Chang, wonderingly.
“Yep. Treve. That’s his name in the catalog. It wasn’t his name when I had him. And it won’t be when I get him back. He—”
“You want—you want take Tleve away—to take him away, so he not be heah no longeh, at all?” demanded Chang, dizzy with the speed wherewith his prayer-papers were paying double dividends.
“That’s it,” assented Colt. “And you’re the man to help me. It’s worth just—just fifty dollars to me to get that cur, without any fuss being made. To get him, quiet, and get him away, quiet. Want to earn that fifty, Chink? Nobody’ll ever know.”
Now, Chang was a man of much finesse. But this delirious prospect of having his prayer answered and of getting fifty whole dollars, to boot, drove him for once to simple directness.
“Yes-s-s,” he simmered, ecstatically; his claw-hand outstretched for the money.
Into his moist palm, Fraser Colt laid a ten-dollar bill. The rest of the roll he pocketed.