“I wasn’t thinking of trying to annex any of that coin,” lied Mr. Daw glibly, and changing entirely his attitude toward Mr. Wix as his admiration grew; “but I was thinking that we might cook up something together. I’ll put up dollar for dollar with you. I’ve just been harvesting, myself.”
Again Wix chuckled.
“Declined with thanks,” he returned. “I don’t mind trailing around a bit with you when we get to New York, and also meeting the carefully assorted selection of dead-sure-thing geniuses who must belong to your set, but I’ll go no further. For one thing, I don’t like the idea of a partner. It cramps me to split up. For another thing, I wouldn’t like to hook up in business with you. You’re not safe enough; you trifle too much with the law, which is not only foolish but unnecessary.”
“Yes?” retorted Daw. “How about this eight thousand or so that you committed mayhem on Filmore to get?”
“Good, honest money,” asserted Wix. “I hate to boast about your present companion, but I don’t owe Filmore a cent. I merely worked up a business and sold my share in it. Of course, they didn’t know I was selling it, but they’ll find out when they go over the records, which are perfectly straight. If, after buying the chance to go into business, they don’t know what to do with it, it isn’t my fault.”
A traveling man who had once been in the office of The La Salle Grain and Stock Brokerage Company for an afternoon’s flyer, and who remembered the cordial ease with which Wix had taken his money, came over to the table.
“Hello, Wix; how’s tricks?” he hailed.
Wix looked up at him blankly but courteously.
“Beg pardon,” he returned.
The face of the traveling man fell.