“I can make more,” said Shorty, this time with stubbornness.
“Well, yes. Sometimes a man can—when he's not worth it, I mean. But it don't generally last.”
Shorty was silent. “I used to make more myself,” said the Virginian.
“You're making a lot more now,” said Shorty.
“Oh, yes. But I mean when I was fooling around the earth, jumping from job to job, and helling all over town between whiles. I was not worth fifty a month then, nor twenty-five. But there was nights I made a heap more at cyards.”
Shorty's eyes grew large.
“And then, bang! it was gone with treatin' the men and the girls.”
“I don't always—” said Shorty, and stopped again.
The Virginian knew that he was thinking about the money he sent East. “After a while,” he continued, “I noticed a right strange fact. The money I made easy that I WASN'T worth, it went like it came. I strained myself none gettin' or spendin' it. But the money I made hard that I WAS worth, why I began to feel right careful about that. And now I have got savings stowed away. If once yu' could know how good that feels—”
“So I would know,” said Shorty, “with your luck.”