Andover told him briefly that there was one chance in a thousand of Pete's recovery; that the shock had been terrific, describing just where the bullet was lodged and its effect upon the sensory nerves. Andover was somewhat surprised to find that this queer person knew considerable about gun-shot wounds and was even more surprised when The Spider drew a flat sheaf of bills from his pocket and asked what an operation would cost. Andover told him.
The Spider immediately counted out the money and handed it to Andover. "And get him in a room where he can be by himself. I'll pay for it."
"That's all right, but if he should not recover from the operation—"
"I'm gambling that he'll pull through," said The Spider. "And there's my ante. It's up to you."
"I'll have a receipt made out—"
The Spider shook his bead. "His life'll be my receipt. And you're writing it—don't make no mistake."
Andover's pale face flushed. "I'm not accustomed to having my reputation as a surgeon questioned."
"See here," said The Spider, laying another packet of bills on the surgeon's desk. "Where I come from money talks. And I reckon it ain't got tongue-tied since I was in El Paso last. Here's a thousand. Pull that boy through and forget where you got the money."
"I couldn't do more if you said ten thousand," asserted Andover.
"Gambling is my business," said The Spider. "I raise the ante. Do you come in?"