“Easy money!” Again that phrase rang in the ears of young Wix, as he walked home, as he stood at his gate looking over at the second-story window of the Gilman house, and as he lay upon his pillow. To dwell in perpetual ease, to be surrounded with endless luxury, to spend money prodigally in all the glitter and pomp of the places that had been built at the demand of extravagance: these things had become an obsession with him—yet, for them, he was not willing to work and wait.
Gilman felt that he had lost vast estates, when, upon calling at the hotel in the morning, he found that Mr. Daw had left upon an early train. He was worried, too, that he had not been able to see Wix before he started down-town. Most opportunely, however, Wix sauntered out of Sam Glidden’s cigar store, opposite the hotel, as Gilman emerged upon the street.
“When’s the funeral?” asked Wix. “You look like a sick-headache feels.”
“Daw has gone, and without leaving me any word,” quavered Gilman. “I suppose he’ll—he’ll probably write to me, though.”
“I’m betting that he has writer’s cramp every time he tries it,” asserted Wix.
“But I signed an agreement with him last night. He must write.”
“Does this look anything like that agreement,” asked Wix, and from his pocket drew the document, torn once across each way. Gilman gazed at the pieces blankly. “I got it away from him, and tore it up myself, last night,” continued Wix. “Also, I ran the gentleman out of town on the five-thirty-seven this morning, headed due east and still going.”
“What do you mean?” gasped Gilman. “Why, man, you’ve taken away the only chance I had to get even. I have to make money, I tell you!”
“Be calm, little Cliffy,” admonished Wix soothingly. “I’m going to get it its money. Look here, Gilman, this man was a fake and I made him say so, but his coming here gave me an idea. I’m going to open a bucket-shop, and you’re going to back it.”