“Half now an’ half afterwards,” he said, at last.
“No, sir!” Hummel objected positively. “Here an’ now, all of it. Else I don’t go.”
“But look here,” Bassett protested, “suppose I do give you the money, how do I know you’ll do your part?”
“Well,” said Hummel, grimly, “I guess you’ll have t’ trust me. But don’t be afeerd—I’ll do it, an’ do it right!”
There was nothing to do but yield—Bassett recognized that plainly enough, for Hummel, in his present mood, was not to be argued with; besides, his demand was reasonable enough. The liquor was turning him into a demon who would stop at nothing—the very thing which Bassett had counted on it doing—and he was anxious to get the plot under way before the inevitable reaction set in. So, reluctantly enough, for it represented the last not only of his savings but of his credit, Bassett put his hand in his pocket, drew out his wallet and slowly counted five ten-dollar bills into Hummel’s outstretched hand.
“There,” he said, with an oath, “I hope you’re satisfied.”
Hummel folded the bills up and thrust them into an inside pocket.
“I am,” he said; “an’ I’m ready whenever you are. But don’t think I’m doin’ this job fer this dirty money. I ain’t. I’ve got t’ have this t’ make my getaway, but I’m doin’ this t’ git even with that little snake of a chief dispatcher, an’ t’ show these corporations that there’s some people will stand up fer their rights. I’m an anarchist, I am,” he continued, growing more and more excited from minute to minute. “I’m—”
But Bassett had had enough of it, and his hand closed savagely upon the other’s arm.
“Cut it out!” he cried. “Don’t waste time in poppin’ off—do somethin’. Where’s the stuff?”