“I s’pose not, sor, seein’ as there’s on’y us two to divide the plunder this toime. An’ it’s mesilf as should pocket the lion’s share, I’m a thinkin’, seein’ as yer honor kep’ safe under shelter here, while I done all the wurruk an’ tuk all the resk.”
“Ah, but if suspicion fastens upon you, I’m the man to save you from the clutches of the law! But here, man, let’s see what the spoil amounts to before we quarrel over the division.”
At that Phelim drew a little package from his breast-pocket and opened it, Bangs looking on with eagle-eyed watchfulness and suspicion.
“Ah, what’s that? a thousand-dollar note!” he exclaimed, clutching eagerly at it.
“Half’s moine, sor; don’t ye forgit that!” growled Phelim, keeping fast hold of one end.
“Tut, man! it’s marked—do you see?—and won’t be of any use to either of us,” grunted Bangs, letting go of the note in disgust.
“Eh! What difference does that make?” queried Phelim, examining it critically and with a crestfallen air.
“All the difference in the world; for, of course, we couldn’t pass it without exposing ourselves to almost certain detection as having had a share in the robbery.”
Phelim ripped out an oath, adding, “They’s all marked—ivery wan ov thim; an’ I’ve resked a tarm o’ years in the pinetintiary fer jist nothin’ at all at all!”
“Never fear; I’ll take care of that,” returned Bangs, grimly. “I can’t afford to let you rot in prison so long as you share your profits with me,” he added, with an unpleasant laugh. “You’d better leave these with me. They’ll be of no use to you, and if found on your person would send you to jail in spite of all I or anybody else could do to keep you out of it.”