"Oh, I've thought of that. What's the good of throwing good money after bad? No use, I no got chance."
"My have got chance," announced Tsang emphatically, "you bet how fashion my talkee you, your money come back."
Reynolds studied the brass knocker of a face, but found no clue to the riddle. "What you mean, Tsang?" he asked. "What do you know? For the Lord's sake don't fool with me about it!"
"Me no fool," declared Tsang. "You le' me talkee number, him win big heap money."
"But how do you know?"
"Me savey," said Tsang enigmatically.
Again Reynolds studied the impassive face. "It's on the square, Tsang? You don't stand in with anybody below decks? The thing is on the level?" Then finding further elucidation necessary, he added, "No belong cheat!"
Tsang Foo shook his head positively. "No belong cheat, all belong ploper. No man savey, only me savey, this side," and he tapped his head significantly.
Reynolds gave a short, unpleasant laugh. "All right," he said, thrusting his hand in his pocket. "I'll give myself one more chance. There'll be time to-morrow to finish my job. I'll make a bargain with you, Tsang! Bet this, and this, and this, on the next run for me. You win, I no makee shoot; you lose, you promise bring back pistol, then go way. My can do what thing my wantchee, see?"
Tsang Foo looked at him cunningly: "I win, you belong good boy? Stop whisky-soda, maybe?"