But just then the faro dealer slammed the door.
The three laughed happily on the stoop. They laughed for a long time. Then Mucluc Charley essayed speech.
“Funny—laughed so hard—ain’t what I want to say. My idea is . . . what wash it? Oh, got it! Funny how ideas slip. Elusive idea—chasin’ elusive idea—great sport. Ever chase rabbits, Percy, my frien’? I had dog—great rabbit dog. Whash ’is name? Don’t know name—never had no name—forget name—elusive name—chasin’ elusive name—no, idea—elusive idea, but got it—what I want to say was—O hell!”
Thereafter there was silence for a long time. O’Brien slipped from their arms to a sitting posture on the stoop, where he slept gently. Mucluc Charley chased the elusive idea through all the nooks and crannies of his drowning consciousness. Leclaire hung fascinated upon the delayed utterance. Suddenly the other’s hand smote him on the back.
“Got it!” Mucluc Charley cried in stentorian tones.
The shock of the jolt broke the continuity of Leclaire’s mental process.
“How much to the pan?” he demanded.
“Pan nothin’!” Mucluc Charley was angry. “Idea—got it—got leg-hold—ran it down.”
Leclaire’s face took on a rapt, admiring expression, and again he hung upon the other’s lips.
“ . . . O hell!” said Mucluc Charley.