"Boy—'bout a ten-year-old, I'd say."
The Irishman shook his head doubtfully. "I dunno. 'Tis a quare thing for the Seer. Av it was me, or you, now—but the Seer! It's danged quare! But tell me, fwhat's this man, yer boss? 'Tis a good healthy pull he must have to be separatin' us from thim San Felipe police."
Texas Joe deliberated so long before answering this that Pat glanced at him uneasily several times. At last the driver drawled: "You're right there; Jefferson Worth sure has some pull."
Pat grunted. "But fwhat does he do?"
"Do?" Tex swung his team around a spur of the mountain where the trail leads along the side of a canyon to its head. Far below they heard the tumbling roar of a stream in its rocky course.
"Sure the man must do something?"
"As near as I can make out Jefferson Worth does everybody."
"Oh ho! So that's ut? I've no care for the cards mesilf, but av a man's a professional an'—"
"You're off there, pardner. Jefferson Worth ain't that kind. He's one o' these here financierin' sports, an' so far as anybody that I ever seen goes, he's got a dead cinch."
"Ye mane he's a banker?"