“Humph,” grunted Weston, as he lit his cigar. “Why don’t I? Read this fur me an’ I will.”
“What’ll you give to have it read?”
“I’ll give you my livery stable, an’ my house—yes, sir,” he added with a grim smile, “I’ll even throw in my real ’state office.”
“Would you give half of anything you might find in your underground safety deposit vault?”
Weston looked up, without any trace of liquor now, and said:
“To the man ’at’ll take me to that pint, I’ll give ever’ other dish and bowl we git. I reckon that’d be fair.”
“Well,” went on Mr. Cook, “here’s the man that can do it,” pointing to Roy. “He knows where your cave is. Is it an even divide?”
Weston sprang up with a shout. At the same time, Roy stepped to Mr. Cook’s side in protest. The only answer he got was:
“I’ve got to pay you for what you said when you gave me the ring, Kid. This is my contract.”