"Very well, I'll trust you. Give us the tenner on account." Dan Ogle stuck out his hand carelessly; but it remained empty.
"I said I'd give fifty when they're changed," grinned Viney, knowingly.
"What? Well, I know that; an' not play no tricks. An' now when I ask you to pay first the ten you've got, you don't want to do it! That don't look like a chap that means to part straight and square, does it?"
Viney put his hand in his pocket. "All right," he said, "that's fair enough. Ten now an' forty when the paper's changed. Where's the paper?"
"O, I ain't got that about me just now," Dan replied airily. "Be here to-morrow, same time. But you can give me the ten now."
Viney's teeth showed unamiably through his grin. "Ah," he said; "I'll be here to-morrow with that, same time!"
"What?" It was Dan's honour that smarted now. "What? Won't trust me with ten, when I offer, free an' open, to trust you with forty? O, it's off then. I'm done. It's enough to make a man sick." And he turned loftily away.
Viney's grin waxed and waned, and he followed Dan with his eyes, thinking hard. Dan stole a look behind, and stopped.
"Look here," Viney said at last. "Look here. Let's cut it short. We can't sharp each other, and we're wasting time. You haven't got those notes."
Dan half-turned, and answered in a tone between question and retort. "O, haven't I?" he said.