"That's the idea," said Foley. "A wing, an' say two or three slats. Or a leg."
The five understood and pledged the faithful discharge of their trust in a round of drinks.
"But what's in it for us?" asked Arkansas Number Two.
"It's an easy job. Youse get him in a fight, he goes down; youse do the business with your feet. Say ten apiece. That's plenty."
"Is that all it's worth to you?" Arkansas asked cunningly.
"Make it twenty-five, Buck," petitioned Kaffir Bill. "We need the coin. What's seventy-five more to youse?"
The other four joined in the request.
"Well, if I don't I s'pose every son-of-a-gun o' youse'll strike," said Foley, assuming the air of a defeated employer. "All right—for this once. But this ain't to be the regular union rate."
"You're all to the good, Buck!" the five shouted.
Foley rose and started out. At the door he paused. "Youse can't ask me for the coin any too soon," he said meaningly.