"Oh, I wouldn't dast! I jest keep a little on hand for my particular friends that I can trust. By the way, Mr. Macpherson, what are you goin' to do with that homestead you took up?"
"Hold it. Why?"
"I thought I might run across a buyer sometime and I wondered what you asked."
A hardness came into Wallie's face and Tucker added:
"I wasn't goin' to charge you any commission—you've had bad luck and——"
"You're the seventh philanthropist that's wanted to sell that place in my behalf for about $400, because he was sorry for me," Wallie interrupted, drily. "You tell Canby that when he makes me a decent offer I'll consider it."
"No offence—no offence, I hope?" Tucker protested.
"Oh, no." Wallie shrugged his shoulder. "Only don't keep getting me mixed with the chap that took up that homestead. I've had my eyeteeth cut."
Extending an invitation to call and quench their thirsts with his raisinade when next they came to town, Tucker unlocked the door.
After the two had wormed their way through the bureaus and stoves and were once more in the street, they turned and gave each other a long, inquiring look.