“It's my find, but seeing you's here I takes half and give you fifteen apiece.”
“Well, that's right.”
“And I guess the Kid can take it out.”
The Kid found the pocketbook with sensitive gliding fingers, and pulled it out. Toboso counted and divided the bills.
“Well,” whispered Toboso thoughtfully, “if the Elder now was forty years younger, I wouldn't want a better pardner.” They tiptoed out into the night. “But,” he continued, “looking at it that way, o' course he ain't got no great use for his wad and won't remember it till next week. Heeled all right, anyhow. Only, I says now, I says, there ain't no vice in him.”
“Mammy tuck me up, no licks to-night,” said the Kid, plodding in front. “I ain't got nothing against him.”
Boston Alley only fingered the bills in his pocket.
It grew quite dark in the room they had left as the fire sunk to a few flames, then to dull embers and an occasional darting spark. The only sound was Father Wiliston's light breathing.
When he awoke the morning was dim in the windows. He lay a moment confused in mind, then sat up and looked around.
“Dear me! Well, well, I dare say Toboso thought I was too old. I dare say”—getting on his feet—“I dare say they thought it would be unkind to tell me so.”