“Twenty, maybe—not over that.”
“Where did he come from?”
“No sabe.”
“What does he look like?”
“Hair black as ink, eyes a washed-out blue——”
“Queer combination!”
“And you’d swear, to give him a keen sizing, that he was an athlete and had gone wrong with some kind of dope. His skin’s a dead white, and there are puffs under his eyes. He soft foots it around like a wild cat, and acts so nervous you think he’s getting ready to spring. But he can deliver the goods. They say he has done wonders with the Gold Hill eleven.”
“If he’s a professional athlete——”
“He’s not. Everybody has the colonel’s word for that. But Guffey, you take it from me, is as crooked as a dog’s hind foot.”
“If he’s a dope fiend,” said Frank, “he’s pretty apt to be crooked. Fellows of that sort may be brilliant, at times, but it’s only a flash while they’re in the power of the drug. Take the drug away from them and they’re human jellyfish. None of them last long.”