“If you didn’t go up to him and turn him over and look at the whites of his eyes, you ain’t sure,” he protested. “That man’s as slippery as wet 105 leather—he’s fooled more than one that thought they had him, and I’ll bet you two bits he’s fooled you.”
“Go and see, and settle it yourself, then,” Thorn proposed, in surly humor.
Chadron had suspended his breakfast, as if the news had come between him and his appetite. He sat in a study, his big hand curved round his cup, his gaze on the cloth. At that juncture Maggie came in with a platter of eggs and ham, which she put down before Mark Thorn skittishly, ready to jump at the slightest hostile start. Thorn began to eat, as calmly as if there was not a stain on his crippled soul.
Unlike the meal of canned oysters which he had consumed as Chadron’s guest not many days before, Thorn was not welcomed to this by friendly words and urging to take off the limit. Chadron sat watching him, in divided attention and with dark face, as if he turned troubles over in his mind.
Thorn cleaned the platter in front of him, and looked round hungrily, like a cat that has half-satisfied its stomach on a stolen bird. He said nothing, only he reached his foul hand across the table and took up the dish containing the remnant of Chadron’s breakfast. This he soon cleared up, when he rasped the back of his hand across his harsh mustache, like a vulture preening its filthy plumage, and leaned back with a full-stomached sigh.
“He makes six,” said he, looking hard at Chadron.
“Huh!” Chadron grunted, noncommittally.
“I want the money, down on the nail, a thousand for the job. I’m through.”
“I’ll have to look into it. I ain’t payin’ for anything sight ’nseen,” Chadron told him, starting out of his speculative wanderings.