"What's this f'r?" asked Simeral, looking at the money as it lay across his hand and then at Tenison.
The gambler regarded him evenly: "You're getting old, Ben."
"Not when it comes to doin' a turn f'r Jim."
Tenison literally swore the money on him. "Ride hard," he said. "An hour may make the difference."
Simeral listened to the injunction but he was putting the money away as slowly and carefully as if he never expected to see money again. This done, he hitched his trousers, shifted his quid, pushed his hat and followed Tenison across the room. He was so slow that Tenison was forced inwardly to smile at his own exasperation: "Never get nervous, do you, Ben?" he asked imperturbably.
"Nervous?"
Tenison, unlocking the street door of the long room, only stood by with his hand outstretched to speed his laggard messenger. The old man stepped out into the night. Tenison, looking after him, shook his head doubtfully. But he was doing what he could and he knew that though the old fellow walked slow, once in a saddle, he could ride fast; and that for Laramie, he would do it.