Skippy, having calculated nicely the possibilities of the exchequer, threw out progressively dark, mysterious hints that fed Snorky's curiosity, without any open gift of his confidence. Even Doc Macnooder, aware by all outward signs that the imagination which had conceived of the Foot Regulator was again fermenting, had laid his arm about his shoulders and led him to the Jigger Shop.
But the Skippy Bedelle, who had assumed the trials and tribulations of manhood, had profited by the first disillusionments. The trusting, childlike faith was gone forever and in his new, skeptical attitude towards human nature—Toots Cortrelle excepted—he had determined to part with as few millions as possible.
"I say, Skippy, how's it working out?" said Snorky at eleven p.m., producing the crackers and cheese, after having blinded the windows and hung a blanket over the telltale cracks of the door.
"Fine!"
"Is that all you're going to tell me?" said Snorky with his hand on the cheese.
"Not yet, but soon," said Skippy, whose appetite always betrayed his caution.
"In that case I serve notice right here I'm through with the financing!"
"The financing!"
"What else do you call it?" said Snorky indignantly, producing the last two quarters from his pocket, and restoring the cheese to its box.
"All that will go down to your credit account," said Skippy in a conciliatory tone. "I'll tell you this much. There's nothing in the butterfly idea—it would take too long."