"Spud always had a soft spot in his heart," said the Butcher. "Instead of drilling that devil, Nulty, when he had the chance, Nulty filled Spud full of holes, an' we fluked up—yer gettin' a bit of my wrist, Dook, with that damned file. Well, as I said, I thought me luck was out fer keeps—an' you show up. Gee! Who'd have thought of seein' de Angel Dook, de prize penman, de gem of forgers! How'd you make yer getaway—you was in fer twenty spaces, wasn't you?"
"I think they wanted to save the expense of burying me," said P. Walton. "The other wrist, Butch. I got a pardon."
"What's de matter with you, Dook?" inquired the Butcher solicitously.
"Lungs," said P. Walton tersely. "Bad."
"Hell!" said the Butcher earnestly.
There was silence for a moment, save only for the rasping of the file, and then the Butcher spoke again.
"What's yer lay out here, Dook?" he asked.
"Working for the railroad in the super's office—and keeping my mouth shut," said P. Walton.
"There's nothin' in that," said the Butcher profoundly. "Nothin' to it!"
"Not much," agreed P. Walton. "Forty a month, and—oh, well, forty a month."