Mr. Crawford lifted his eyebrows. Argyl leaned forward.
"He said," went on Conniston, lightly, "that he would not send me a dollar. You see, he wants me to do something for myself. And," with a rueful grin, "I am in debt to you for a dollar to pay for my message—and I haven't ten cents!"
Mr. Crawford laughed with him. "We won't worry about the dollar just now, Mr. Conniston. What are you going to do?"
Conniston scratched his head. "I don't know. I—" And then Argyl's words came back to him, and he surprised himself by saying: "Most men go to work when they're strapped, don't they? I guess I'll go to work."
"I don't mean to be too personal, but—are you used to working?"
"I never did a day's work in my life."
"Then what can you do?"
"I don't know. I—you see, I never figured on this. I—I—Do you happen to know anybody who wants a man?"
A little flicker of a smile shot across Crawford's face.
"We're all looking for men—good men—all the time. I can use a half-dozen more cow-punchers right now. Do you want to try it?"