“Finky wrote to me too.”
“Oh, did he? Well, then, here’s another thing that don’t seem to make sense: When he did finally get round to telling Soap about this money, why couldn’t he let him know where it was? I mean, why didn’t he say it’s under the mat or poked up the chimney or something, ’stead of leaving him hunt for it like he was playing button, button, where’s the button—or something?”
“Because,” said Mr. Twist bitterly, “Soapy and me were both pals of his, and he wanted us to share. And to make sure we should get together he told Soapy where the house was and me where the stuff was hidden in the house.”
“So you’ve only to pool your info’ to bring home the bacon?” cried Dolly, wide-eyed.
“That’s all.”
“Then why in time haven’t you done it?”
Mr. Twist snorted. It is not easy to classify snorts, but this was one which would have been recognised immediately by any expert as the snort despairing, caused by the contemplation of the depths to which human nature can sink.
“Because,” he said, “Soapy, the pig-headed stiff, thinks he can double-cross me and get it alone.”
“What?” Mrs. Molloy uttered a cry of wifely pride. “Well, isn’t that bright of my sweet old pieface! I’d never of thought the dear boy would have had the sense to think up anything like that.”
Mr. Twist was unable to share her pretty enthusiasm.