“They are good, I reckon,” observed the wary Crawley. “Aint they good, Martin?”
“Might be worse,” responded the oily owner of the Golden Horn, “but it aint that. It's the rate. Seems like mighty little on a short loan.”
“It is mighty little,” continued Crawley, after a silence of some moments. “We would have to give more than that for what we borrowed 'round. There would n't be nothing in it for us, Billy,—not a cent to me and Martin.”
“I tell you what I'll do,” put in the Honorable Ambercrombie Hergan, abruptly, as though the idea was new and sudden in its coming, “I'll give you twelve per cent, for the money for a month, and I will enter into an agreement to turn over to you two one-eighth of what I win on the gamble.”
Crawley was very grave. The proposition pleased him hugely, but emotions found no expression with him. To loan fifty thousand dollars on good security at an enormous rate of interest, and in addition to have a substantial share in a speculation without standing to lose a cent, was a condition of affairs not likely to arise with much regularity in the span of a gambler's precarious life. Yet Crawley was not anxious. To the spectator he was sad and unconcerned. He knew quite well that this proposition was Hergan's ultimatum, and he was going to accept, but desired to appear to accept rather as a matter of kindly feeling toward Hergan than by reason of the fact that the inducement had increased.
“Billy,” he said slowly, almost sadly, “me and Martin don't want to make anything off of you, and we will try to fix it any way you want it. If you want to arrange the thing that way, why it suits us—it suits me and Martin.”
“All right,” responded the Secretary of State, getting up from the table. “I'll go over to the Governor's house and have Al fix the papers. The sooner I get it, the better chance I'll have to win a stake.”
“Billy,” called the proprietor of the Emporium, as the official of the Commonwealth was passing out through the door, “just make the note payable to Martin.”
The Honorable Ambercrombie Hergan nodded his assent, and departed, leaving the fat gambling kings of the Southwest to prolong the secret session.
When the door was closed, First Class Crawley turned to his companion, his little gray eyes slipping around in their puffy sockets.