This was the final straw. Poor Hostetter, blinded by the limitations of his own experience, carried away by the glamour of Bully’s wondrous raiment, positively groveled. And Bully continued to bask in open-mouthed admiration of the other, until it occurred to him that he had better account for his black eye.
“I got this in my last game,” and he lightly touched the patch. “I was pitching, and the batter hit out a liner at me. I tried to stop it, but the ball broke through my hands and struck my eye. Even so, I caught it before it reached the ground, and so won the game.”
He reeled off this fabrication with amazing ease. Across the aisle was seated a man who had got on at Carsonville, and who knew nothing of how Bully had really obtained that injured optic. He grinned, and nudged the man beside him. Bully did not notice it, however.
Presently the conversation became even more personal. Bully discovered that his companion was proceeding to Fardale to invest in a laundry there, which was for sale. After a cautious glance around, Hostetter pulled forth a long black wallet and opened it out.
“Look at this!” he exclaimed proudly, anxious to prove to the great man that he, too, had symptoms of nobility. “There’s a thousand dollars in cash—in cash, mind you! I’m going to buy that laundry with it.”
Bully leaned over. At sight of the ten hundred-dollar bills his senses reeled, and sparks danced before his eyes. A thousand dollars in cash!
“By glory!” he gasped inwardly. “If I only had that much, what a clean-up I’d make on this Fardale game!”
He was more cautious in expressing his thoughts aloud, however.
“Why didn’t you get a draft? You could ’a’ cashed it at Fardale in the morning. Ain’t you afraid some one will hold you up?”
“It’s kind o’ risky,” admitted the little man, replacing the wallet. “But I don’t like to trust to banks, Carson. I had a bank bust on me once, in Chicago, and I ain’t never going to trust ’em again. I guess no one’s going to hold me up, though.”