“Gettin’ funny, ain’t youse?”
“Well, you heard what I said. If you don’t trust me, how’m I gonta trust you? How do I know there’ll be anything in it for me, after I’ve gone along and done what you told me to? How do I know you won’t grab off the jack and leave me somewhere talkin’ to myself? No—nothin’ doin’. It’s time for a showdown.”
Slim idled with his knife, the frown still covering his brow. “Well,” he announced suddenly, “let’s finish eatin’ an’ den we’ll go to de tent an’ I’ll tell youse all about it. Maybe youse’re right, kid, but I always like to keep me dope to meself.”
“That’s all right when you’re workin’ alone,” Winnie conceded. “But when you’ve got a pal in on the deal with you, you oughta come clean. I’ll admit I don’t trust you—and that’s been just the reason.”
“Why, kid, I wouldn’t toin youse down. Youse know youse’re de only jane on de line dat’s got me goat.”
“That’s what they all say,” sniffed Winnie.
“Well, I’ll prove it, den—I’ll slip youse de dope.”
“All right,” Winnie said demurely, and her dark eyes sparkled over her conquest.
A little later they sat together in the tent, one on either side of the rickety table, with a candle flickering between them. Slim sat thoughtfully silent for a little, his brown-paper cigarette pasted with saliva to his lower lip and hanging lifelessly. His pale-blue eyes stared into space. The affected huskiness was gone from his voice when he began to speak, for, being a practiced habit, it deserted him in his more serious moments.
“Well, here she is,” he started in, “an’ I ain’t keepin’ nuttin’ back. An’ youse’ll say it’s good, w’en youse know dere’s gonta be twenty-five t’ousan’ to split between us. Does dat sound good, kid?”