“Carry it in my pockets,” says I.
“That pile?” says he—“you see it was all ones and fives, while mine was in fifties and hundreds and there was a slew of ’em. You can’t do it. You’d be overhauled before you could get to the Herald office. I’ll lend you my grip sack,” he says.
It was the old dodge—just what I’d been expecting. I felt kind of nervous myself then, especially for Old King Brady’s counterfeit money, for it’s against the law for any one to handle counterfeit money—even detectives are not excepted, I want you to understand, and my boss had told me he’d hold me responsible if it wasn’t got back.
He put his money in the bag and mine in the desk.
Then he put the bag on the desk and began jumping round all of a sudden, whispering that there was a row in the saloon and he’d have to go out and see what it was. There must have been a row if noise went for anything, but I’ve no doubt it was a put up job.
He ran to the door, and I pretended to follow him, but all the same I had my eye peeled for the bag, and saw it disappear through a panel in the back of the desk just as I had expected, and another just like it come in its place.
“It’s all right; only two fellers fighting,” he says, popping in next minute. “Now, then, everything is all straight, and you’d better light out as soon as you can, for that fight may draw the cops in.”
He picked up the bag and handed it to me.
“You’d better go out this way,” he says, pointing to the door.
Now the ticklish time had come.