“It ain’t that,” replied the ugliest member of the gang, “but supposin’ there’s no money in the bloomin’ bank, what then?”
A roar of laughter greeted his surmise.
“What d’you suppose the bank’s for,” asked Carnac, “if not to store up money?”
“Whips and whips of money,” observed Sweet William, the stem of his lighted pipe between his teeth. “You go with a legitimate cheque for, say, £550, and you’d get it cashed all right.”
“Certainly”; replied Garstang, “in notes. And that’s where we’d fall in. Every number is known, and so soon as we tried to cash the dirty paper, we’d get lagged. Even if we passed ’em at pubs, we’d be traced. What we want is gold—nothing but gold. And I’d be surprised if they have a thousand sovereigns in the bank.”
“If they have,” remarked Dolphin, “you’ll get two-fifty. Isn’t that good enough?”
“That’s it,” retorted his troublesome follower, “there’s considerable risk about the business, in spite of you fixing all the details so neat and easy. I ask, ‘Is it good enough to get about ten years for the sake of £250?’”
“Just what I thought,” exclaimed Dolphin. “You’re a cock-tail. In your old age you’ve grown white-livered. I guess, Garstang, you’d better retire, and leave those to carry out the work who don’t know what fear is.”
“That’s so,” echoed Carnac, drumming the table with his white fingers.
“You don’t ketch my meaning,” growled Garstang, angry and surly. “What I want is a big haul, and damn the risk. There’s no white liver about me, but I say, ‘Let’s wait till we’ve reason to know that the bank’s safe is heavily loaded.’ I say, ‘Wait till we know extra big payments have been made into it.’ Let’s get all we can for our trouble.”