I beckoned him to his office and walked in there and waited for him. He came on the jump. He was at me almost before I had time to place my plug-hat out of the way of possible damage.
When Mr. Dawlin would close a gazara game right at a moment when suckers were shoving money at him, it was proof that he was specially interested in something else which was almighty important. His language when he burst in on me made it plain that his interest in me was not flattering, though it was intense.
“Oh, if it’s that little, foolish, petty matter of the few dollars you handed back to those yaps,” I broke in, after I had pushed him back with a swoop of my arm—and, as I have stated, it was a hard arm—“here’s your small change.”
In my wood business I had promptly changed checks into cash. I pulled out before the lustful eyes of Mr. Dawlin a roll of bills big enough to make a pillow for his Mormon Giant, and I carelessly flipped the edges to show him they were yellowbacks.
“What did the little matter amount to?” I asked, airily.
“Six and twenty-two fifty—and I tossed ’em a five,” he said, trying to make a quick shift from passion to pacification.
“And I guess the drinks are on me this time, Jeff,” I said, adding a ten-dollar bill to the amount. “Go buy the kind you like.”
“But what in—”
“This tells all the story,” I said, tapping the roll and stuffing it back.
“But your partners—leaving me in the lurch—not inviting me in for a drag—”