George was silent. He seemed thinking about things. Hank leaned forward across the table.
“Bud,” said he, “you’re not backing out, are you? You’re not afraid of a bit of work? Why, look here, Bud, I’d only to put my hand in your pocket, so to speak, and pull out the dollars to pay for fitters and riggers enough to fit out a battleship, let alone the Wear Jack. But, leaving alone being robbed of time and dollars, where’d be the game in that? I’m doing this thing with my own hands and head and so are you. Forget money—it spoils everything.”
“You’re pretty keen after it all the same, Hank,” said George laughing.
“Yep. When I’m chasing it, but I’m not chasing it now, I’m chasing the Dutchman. I’m not thinking of the twenty-five thousand, I’m thinking of the Dutchman. It’s a game and I don’t want money to help me. Why, I’d blush to be helped by money in chasing a man, unless he’d done me some wrong. When I get this fellow by the scruff, I wanta say to myself, ‘Hank, you took this man by the work of your own hands and your own head, and against odds. He had as good chances as you, and you didn’t shoot him sitting.’ If you don’t take me, Bud, then we don’t understand each other and I’ll leave you to that gink with the whiskers and your millionaire ways and start off on my lonesome.”
“We understand each other,” said George, ringing the bell. “I’m not afraid of a bit of work with my hands. Farintosh.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Send round the car.”
In the hall, as they passed out to the car, Hank picked up a bundle he had brought with him.
“What’s in that?” asked George.
“Overalls,” said Hank.