Simmons shook his head.
“I can’t do it,” he protested. “If I should send you out and you shouldn’t make good, Reivers would be sore.”
“Who’s this man Reivers?”
The agent’s eyes over his glasses expressed surprise.
“I thought you were wise to Hell Camp?” he said.
“Oh, I’m wise enough,” said Toppy impatiently. “I know what it is. But who’s this Reivers?”
“He’s the boss,” said Simmons shortly. “D’you mean to say you never heard about Hell-Camp Reivers, the Snow-Burner?”
“No, I haven’t,” replied Toppy impatiently. “But that doesn’t make any difference. You send me out there; I’ll make good, don’t worry.” He paused and sized his man up. “Come over here, Simmons,” he said with a significant wink, leading the way toward the door. “I want that job; I want it badly.” Toppy dived into his pockets. Two bills came to light—two twenties. He slipped them casually into Simmons’ hand. “That’s how bad I want it. Now how about it?”
The fashion in which Simmons’ thin fingers closed upon the money told Toppy that he was not mistaken in the agent’s character.
“You’ll be taking your own chances,” warned Simmons, carefully pocketing the money. “If you don’t make good—well, you’ll have to explain to Reivers, that’s all. You must have an awful good reason for wanting to go out.”