Wix shook his head.
“Not me,” said he. “The law books prove that easy money costs too much.”
The black-eyed one shrugged his shoulders.
“In certain lines it does,” he admitted. “I’m going to get out of my line right away, for that very reason. Besides,” he added with a sigh, “these educated town constables are putting the business on the bump-the-bumps. They’ve got so they want from half to two-thirds, and put a bookkeeper on the job.”
Mr. Gilman presently created a diversion by emitting a faint whoop, and immediately afterward went to sleep in the bread-platter. Wix sent for the porter of their sleeping-car, and between the two they put Mr. Gilman to bed. Before Wix returned to the shell expert he carefully extracted the money from his friend Clifford’s pocket.
“He won’t need it, anyhow,” he lightly explained, “and we will. I’ll tell him about it in the morning.”
“I guess you can do that and make him like it all right,” agreed the other. “He’s a born sucker. He can get to the fat money, can’t he?”
Wix shook his head.
“No,” he declared; “parents poor, and I don’t think he has enough ginger in him ever to make a pile of his own.”
The other was thoughtful and smiling for a time.