“But where’s all the money, in this cinch?” demanded Durkin, a little impatiently.
“I can’t cackle about that here, but I tell you right now, I’m no piker! Get into a taxi with me, and then I’ll lay everything out to you as we drive up to the house. But here, have a smoke,” he added as he got up and hurried to the door that opened on the side street. Durkin had never dreamed that tobacco—even pure Havana tobacco—could be so suave and mellow and fragrant as that cigar.
“Now, you asked me about the money in this deal,” the older man began, when he had slammed the taxi door and they went scurrying toward Fifth Avenue. “Well, it’s right here, see!”—and as he spoke he drew a roll of bills from his capacious trousers-pocket. From an inner coat-pocket that buttoned with a flap he next took out a pig-skin wallet, and flicked the ends of his paper wealth before Durkin’s widening eyes. The latter could see that it was made up of one hundreds, and fifties, and twenties, all neatly arranged according to denomination. He wondered, dazedly, just how many thousands it held. It seemed, of a sudden, to put a new and sobering complexion on things.
“Money talks!” was the older man’s sententious remark, as he restored the wallet to its pocket.
“Undoubtedly!” said Durkin, leaning back in the cushioned seat.
“Now, if you want to swing in with us, here’s what you get a week.”
The stranger took the smaller roll from his trousers-pocket again, and drew out four crisp fifty dollar bills. These he placed on the palm of the other man’s hand, and watched the hesitating fingers slowly close on them. “And if our coup goes through, you get your ten per cent. rake-off,—and that ought to run you up from five to seven thousand dollars, easy!”
Durkin’s fingers closed more tightly on his bills, and he drew in his gin-laden breath, sharply.
“Who are you, anyway?” he asked, slowly.
“Me? Oh, I’m kind of an outside operator, same as yourself!”