“You’d better,” said the other, sourly. “I don’t like wasting time on these idols, anyway. I never knew any good to come of bothering the Indian gods, Sandy.”
Mackintavers only laughed, although not without a frown to follow the laugh. He was wondering if the presence of those gods in his house had brought him the loss of ten thousand dollars. He was the last man on earth to let superstition alter his plans; yet he was Scottish, and he could not help wondering—just a little.
CHAPTER IX—THE WICKER DEMIJOHN
As has been related, Thady Shea somewhat vaguely set out upon the way to Magdalena, after disposing of his shoeless flivver and its snoring load.
The dawn came up and found him plodding onward. An hour later he was hailed from the roadside by a venerable ancient having one very blue eye and a long white beard. This worthy proved to be a tramp printer, who intended to get work at Magdalena when his money gave out.
For the present, however, the ancient had no intention of working; so he proposed a road partnership, stating that he liked Shea’s looks. Thady Shea wanted to sleep, which “Dad” Griffith, as the ancient was named, deemed a highly laudable ambition.
Accordingly, a little while afterward, Shea found himself snugly ensconced in a camp well back from the road and well hidden in a clump of trees. Before sleeping, he explored his pockets and found some money, left from the sum given him by Mrs. Crump for his Zacaton City purchases.
“Take it, friend,” he said, drowsily, thrusting the money upon the ancient. “Take it, and add it to thy scanty store, that so we may have wherewithal to live.”
“You bet I will, partner,” and Dad Griffith seized it. “It’ll keep us quite a spell, with what I got. No sense workin’, I says, when they’s no need. I figger on gettin’ a job to Magdalena when I got to work. I had a job there two year ago. These here goshly-gorful linotypes is puttin’ honest printers out o’ business. Why, I seen th’ day——”
In the midst of a dissertation upon the elegancies of hand-set type and the blasted frightfulness of an existence surrounded by linotype machines, Shea stretched out and fell asleep. The ancient droned along, regardless. When Shea wakened toward sunset, old Griffith was still discoursing upon the same topic.