“This was a Wednesday. On Thursday, the third day of our Robinson Crusoe business, the weather was still thick, though there was signs of clearin'. Fatty come to me after breakfast—which cost him thirty-five, payable, as usual, to 'Bearer'—with almost a grin on his big face.
“'Berry,' he says, 'I owe you an apology. I thought you was a green Rube, like the rest down here, but you're as sharp as they make 'em. I ain't the man to squeal when I get let in on a bad deal, and the chap who can work me for a sucker is entitled to all he can make. But this pay-as-you-go business is too slow and troublesome. What'll you take for the rest of the grub in the locker there, spot cash? Be white, and make a fair price.'
“I'd been expectin' somethin' like this, and I was ready for him.
“'Two hundred and sixty-five dollars,' says I, prompt.
“He done a little figgerin'. 'Well, allowin' that I have to put up on this heap of desolation for the better part of four days more, that's cheap, accordin' to your former rates,' he says. 'I'll go you. But why not make it two fifty, even?'
“'Two hundred and sixty-five's my price,' says I. So he handed over another 'Bearer' check, and his board bill was paid for a week.
“Friday was a fine day, clear as a bell. Me and Williams had a real picnicky, sociable time. Livin' outdoor this way had made him forget his diseases and the doctor, and he showed signs of bein' ha'fway decent. We loafed around and talked and dug clams to help out the pork—that is, I dug 'em and Fatty superintended. We see no less'n three sailin' craft go by down the bay and tried our best to signal 'em, but they didn't pay attention—thought we was gunners or somethin', I presume likely.
“At breakfast on Saturday, Williams begun to ask questions again.
“'Sol,' says he, 'it surprised me to find that you knew what a “margin” was. You didn't get that from anything I said. Where did you get it?'
“I leaned back on my box seat.