“Three thousand,” he says. “I’m going to be liberal with you, Spalding, and give you three for one.”
“Wall,” says I as though I was thinking like, “if that’s the case you’d better make it two thousand.”
“Say three?”
“Hain’t got so much.”
“But you said you had up at the Van Dyke.”
“Wall, letter go,” I says. “You see, three thousand in counterfeit bills was just what I had.”
He counted out his money and I counted mine.
Then he counted mine and I counted his.
“How you going to carry it?” says he, kinder nervous like.
His eyes were fixed so sharp on his own money in my hands that he hardly looked at mine, and as the place was kinder dark never seemed to tumble to the fact that it wasn’t all O.K.