“But, Wix, I’ve got to do something that will bring me in some money! I’ve run behind on my wheat trades. I’ve—I’ve got to do something!”
Wix, in the darkness, made a little startled movement, the involuntary placing of his finger-tips behind his ear; then he answered quietly:
“I told you to keep away from that game. I tried it myself and know all about it.”
“I know, but I did it just the same,” answered Gilman.
Wix chuckled.
“Of course you did. You’re the woolly breed that keeps bucket-shops going. I’d like no better lazy life than just to run a bucket-shop and fill all my buckets with the fleeces of about a dozen of your bleating kind. It would be easy money.”
The front door of the Gilman house opened a little way, and the voice of a worried woman came out into the night:
“Is that you, Cliffy?”
“Yes, mother,” answered Clifford. “Good night, old man. I want to be sure to see you before I go to the bank in the morning. I want to talk this thing over with you,” and young Gilman hurried into the house.
Wix looked after him as he went in, and stood staring at the glowing second-story window. Then he suddenly went back up to his own porch and got his hat. Fifteen minutes later he was at the desk of the Grand Hotel.