"How about the others at Criss-Cross?"
Porshinger shook his head.
"Might it be old Chamberlain?"
"Possibly—but I think not. He never allows business to dictate his friends, I understand."
"Good thing when you can afford it!—Well, there must be some reason for asking you."
"A particularly sage observation. Button! button! who has the button?"
"Butt in! butt in! you're the butt in!" amended Woodside.
"Get out!" laughed Porshinger, flinging a magazine at him. "I haven't an idea what is the reason, but I'm perfectly sure it won't be declared this trip, and possibly never. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, Josh."
"Better be sure it is a gift horse," was the answer. "However, you for it, my friend—it's your funeral, not mine."