The contemplative gentleman roused himself.
“Someway I don’t like this idea of being cheated pretty well.” His voice was a mild and regretful drawl. “Never had much use for Beck; but I did think old Scanlon was a square old sport!”
“Square sport! Why, you poor simp, you never had a look in!” sneered the sharper. Then he wrinkled his brows in some perplexity. “What I don’t see is why they didn’t skin the Eastern chap too. They could ’a’ had that gink’s wad—that Drake; but they let him down easy. Oh, well, we should worry! It will leave all the more for us.”
“For us?” echoed Neighbor, puzzled.
“Sure, Mike! You get hold of a good piece of money and we’ll do a brother act. You and me, we ain’t never been chummy—they won’t tumble. We’ll sit in with ’em and string along with ’em till the big money gets out in the open—just holding enough cards to keep in the swim. When I give you the office, go get ’em! I’ll slip big ones to Beck and the college Johnny—and the top hand to you, of course—and we’ll split fifty-fifty.”
Neighbor’s mind groped back along the dusty years for a half-forgotten adage.
“If a dog bites you once,” he said with halting speech, “shame on him; if you bite a dog—shame on you!”
“Huh? I don’t get you.”
“Besides,” said Neighbor placidly, “you’ll be going away now.”
“Not me. Saragossa looks good to me.”