CHAPTER X
I CORRUPT A BANK CLERK
“Who’s that pale-looking chap at the first table to the left?” asked Chelsea George, one of Jack Hartley’s coterie of misfit burglars. His remark was addressed to a faro dealer at his side.
“The feller that’s just cashin’ in his last case?” whispered the dealer.
“Yes—he’s got the look of a farmer not long used to city ways and clothes,” said Chelsea George.
“You’re half right, sir; he’s a bank clerk. He came from Montreal way not long ’go,” volunteered the faro dealer. “But he’s a good thing here, though he was a greeny for sure when he first come in. He’s buckin’ in the game fast, sir, these days. Got the gamblin’ fever very much alive in ’im.”
“Can’t have much cash if he’s only a bank clerk,” remarked Chelsea George with a sniff.
“Not much to back his game, but he’s a sticker for keeps.”
“Is it possible?” ejaculated Chelsea, as though surprised. “Tell us more about him.”
“Yes, do; he seems a queer chap, doncher know,” put in a companion of Chelsea. Up to this juncture he had been a quiet listener.
“I’m not sure but he might prove an interesting acquaintance,” said Chelsea George, turning to the speaker with a peculiar light in his eyes. The third of the group was English George, a pal of Chelsea and a crook of no higher class. They dressed loudly and posed as fast young gentlemen from Britain, with plenty of cash to spend. The faro dealer believed them to be of this class, though had he known them to be what they were, it would have made no difference to him. Occasionally they bucked the tiger.