"I've sent orders to bring 'em in next week."
Gumberts nodded again, and the man departed. Into the chair which he had vacated dropped Ben Chacherre, and took from his pocket the money which he had obtained at the bank. He laid it on the table before Gumberts.
"There you are," he said. "Amounts you want and all. The boss says to gimme a receipt."
"Wouldn't trust you, eh?" jeered Gumberts. He took out pencil and paper, scrawled a word or two, and shoved the paper at Chacherre. Then he reached down to a small satchel which lay open on the floor beside his chair. "Why wouldn't the boss leave the money come out of the takin's, hey?"
"Wanted to keep separate accounts," said Chacherre.
Gumberts nodded and produced two large sealed envelopes, which he pushed across the table.
"There's rakeoff for week before last," he announced. "Last week will be the big business, judgin' from early reports."
Chacherre pocketed the envelopes, lighted a cigarette, and leaned forward.
"Say, Izzy! You got to send a new man down to the Bayou Latouche right away. Lafarge was there, you know; a nigger shot him yesterday. The nigger threatened to squeal unless he got his money back—Lafarge was a fool and didn't know how to handle him. The lottery's goin' to get a bad name around there——"
Gumberts snapped his fingers. "Let it!" he said, calmly. "The big money from all that section is Chinese and Filipino, my friend. The niggers don't matter."