"I always said he was the 'cutest of us all," he declared in an admiring tone, as he came back to Gray. "Too soft for me. We lost a goodish pile once because he wouldn't use these little beauties," and he touched the revolver in his hand. "But that 'cute he was; up to every trick of the profession. You couldn't understand this, couldn't you?"
He did not wait for an answer, but went on in a quicker tone.
"Of course you couldn't; you'd have been searching here for a month of Sundays if I hadn't kindly come to help you. 'Big Gum Tree.' Ha! ha! Tom was 'cute, to be sure."
Gray did not speak; he did not even look up.
"Don't be down on your luck, my lad," said Clay jocosely; "there's enough for both of us. It'll be more than the reward, any way," and he chuckled with a cruel sort of mirth. "You've got a handy little pick in that knapsack of yours; just fetch it, will you?"
"Get it yourself!"
Clay gave him a fierce threatening look.
"None of your airs and graces here, young man. You do what I tell you, or it'll be the worse for you."
He sat down on the block of wood opposite Gray, folded his arms and added:
"You're the junior partner, and you'll just wait on me, my fine fellow. You go and fetch me that pick to begin with."