“You are the clear quill, Red,” he finally observed. “This here’s a grubstake, and that means you got a half interest in any vein o’ pay rock I’m able to unkiver. Maybe I ain’t named Fortune for nothin’, after all, and we go snooks on whatever grows up from these two plunks after I’ve planted ’em. Hoop-a-la!”
The queer chap got up from the bench with a wide smile, jingling the money in his trousers pocket. Just as he started away, Dirk Hibbard darted around the corner of the garage and rushed up to Clancy. The fellow’s manner was distinctly hostile, and, in a flash, Clancy was on his feet.
“I reckon you’re plumb satisfied now!” exclaimed Hibbard, bitterly resentful.
Fortune, on his way toward Washington Street, halted and faced around.
“Well, yes,” drawled Clancy, looking the discharged chauffeur squarely in the eyes, “I’ve got a job and I suppose I ought to be satisfied!”
“You laid your plans to get old Pembroke to fire me!”
“It’s nothing to me whether the judge keeps you or fires you, and I didn’t lay any plans. I’m working for Rockwell and not for Judge Pembroke.”
“You wanted to get my job for that muttonhead friend of yours!” breathed Hibbard, through his teeth.
“Who’s the muttonhead?” demanded Fortune, stepping forward truculently. “Me?”
“Keep off, Jimmie!” said Clancy. “Hibbard’s business is with me, not with you. I don’t care a rap about you, one way or the other,” he went on to Hibbard, “but it’s my private opinion that the judge did a good piece of work when he pulled the pin on you. I’ve an idea that you have been double crossing him right along, and that he has just begun to find it out.”