"Two hundred. He was stony!"
"He did look hungry." This from the reporter, ruminatingly.
"I sent him on to Larrabie."
"Bet you a hundred that Larrabie never sees him!"
"I'll take that," said the reporter.
But Fox-face, perceiving better ones, changed the terms of his proffered wager.
"Bet you a hundred you never hear from him, even if he does meet Condit." He hurled this at the huge man, disdaining the reporter. "Bet you you've not heard from him in three years—in five!"
"There's too many sure things in this world," opined the huge man, calm under Fox-face's challenge with something like contempt, "to bother with a gamble." He squinted a moment in thought.
"But when we pull into Shell you'd better wire Larrabie to be discreet. If he wants to know who D. is, better advise Larrabie to call me 'Denver'—'Denver' Smith will do. Just a disinterested party."
And at that Fox-face was instantly, visibly consumed with curiosity. The reporter looked almost as though he understood.