"Oh, yes," she said lightly to the skinner, "I know what she refers to. Why, just tell her, 'Half,' Heine. That's all you need to say; she'll understand."
"Gotcha," said Heine, and lounged away, rolling a brown paper cigarette.
The outfit started back again early next morning; and eight days later it returned, still minus its two important figures. Again Heine Schultz rested his bony elbows on the carpeted counter of the shooting gallery, and spoke to Lucy, who this time was alone.
"About that business between you folks and Jo," he said, indolently filling a cigarette paper.
"Yes?" eagerly returned Lucy.
"Jo says tell you, 'Half is too much.'"
"Oh! She—she's still ill?"
Heine, shook his head sadly and tapped his chest. "Can't hardly hear her talk," he said. "It's fierce. Wild Cat's scared stiff about it. Well, what'll I tell 'er, Miss Lucy?"
"I'll have to see Al before giving you an answer," she told him. "Can't you drop around after supper, Heine?"
"Sure. I'm on the water wagon, though," he added blandly, with no suggestion of a deep meaning in his tones.