"He'd have to if he were broke."
"But he AIN'T broke. Didn't I tell you 's old man puts up reg'lar? Fine man, too, Misser Anthony; owns railroads."
"I'll tell you how we can work it. I've got a ticket for Central
America in my pocket. The boat sails at ten. Let's send him down there."
"Wha' for?"
Locke kept his temper with an effort. "To make a man of him. We'll go through his clothes and when he lands he'll be broke. He'll HAVE to work. Don't you see?"
"No." Anthony's friend did not see. "He don't want to go to Central
America," he argued; "he's got a new autom'bile."
"But suppose we got him soused, went through his pockets, and then put him aboard the boat. He'd be at sea by the time he woke up; he couldn't get back; he'd have to work; don't you see? He'd be broke when he landed and have to rustle money to get back with. I think it's an awful funny idea."
The undeniable humor of such a situation finally dawned upon Higgins's mind, and he burst into a loud guffaw.
"Hey there! Shut up!" Anthony called from the piano. "Listen here! I've found the lost chord." He bore down with his huge hands upon the yellow keyboard, bringing forth a metallic crash that blended fearfully with the bartender's voice. "It's a great discovery."
"I'll get him full if you'll help manage him," Locke went on. "And here's the ticket." He tapped his pocket.