“Wake me up! I'm dreamin'!” The sparkle of the gems was in Jim's eyes, and he began sorting out the larger diamonds and examining them. “We're rich men, Matt—we'll be regular swells.”
“It'll take years to get rid of 'em,” was Matt's more practical thought.
“But think how we'll live! Nothin' to do but spend the money an' go on gettin' rid of em.”
Matt's eyes were beginning to sparkle, though sombrely, as his phlegmatic nature woke up.
“I told you I didn't dast think how fat it was,” he murmured in a low voice.
“What a killin'! What a killin'!” was the other's more ecstatic utterance.
“I almost forgot,” Matt said, thrusting his hand into his inside coat pocket.
A string of large pearls emerged from wrappings of tissue paper and chamois skin. Jim scarcely glanced at them.
“They're worth money,” he said, and returned to the diamonds.
A silence fell on the two men. Jim played with the gems, running them through his fingers, sorting them into piles, and spreading them out flat and wide. He was a slender, weazened man, nervous, irritable, high-strung, and anaemic—a typical child of the gutter, with unbeautiful twisted features, small-eyed, with face and mouth perpetually and feverishly hungry, brutish in a cat-like way, stamped to the core with degeneracy.