"Neither have I," laughed O'Byrn. "This diggin' down was a bluff. But I'll see your ten all right. This bum line of witnesses will take notice. Loser touches someone to pay the winner. All fine 'nd dandy."
Mead acquiesced, albeit with an implied something of uncertainty in his demeanor. The rotund Stearns voiced it in nervous words.
"Gee! Mead," he exclaimed, "you're a chump to bet your stuff on another fellow's game."
"Go die somewhere, Fatty," suggested Micky. "There's no game yet, but," with a queer grin at Mead, "there's going to be before this thing's over. Want to renig, Mead? Can if you want to."
"No!" indignantly rejoined Mead. "I'll see it through. If you really have something in your Irish sleeve, O'Byrn, I'll bet it's worth the money."
"Nothin' yet," murmured Micky, as they prepared to depart, "but I tell you, boys, that sleeve's a Christmas stockin' just now, and I'm gettin' eye-strain watchin' for Santa Claus."
CHAPTER XIV
A DISCREDITED HENCHMAN
MICKY strolled into the Courier's local room one evening, and, after hanging up his overcoat and hat, removed also his under coat and unbuttoned his vest. He then leisurely detached his cuffs and rolled up his shirt sleeves, to get arm-room, as he used to term it. Then, having indulged a taste for preliminaries which he was fond of observing, whenever he had the time, he sailed in. A half hour later he had finished his task and turned in the copy. There was a temporary lull, and O'Byrn leaned back in his chair, his hands clasped behind his red head, and dreamily watched the rings of smoke wreathing upward from the tip of his cigar.
"Wherever did you get a gash like that?" inquired a voice behind him, and Micky felt a finger touch his wrist. Mead, who also chanced to be disengaged at the moment, took an adjacent chair and stretched himself out comfortably for a chat.