“Sounds a swell proposition for me,” he said. “I’d like it a deal better for some of the chances lying around. But get to it, boy,” he went on, helping himself to another of the trout. “Ladle it out. Hand me the whole darn fancy, an’, short of murder, I haven’t a scruple. If ther’s a fight to it I’ll be glad. You see, it’s only when I’m up against things I can keep off the liquor. Give me something to help me dodge the liquor, and I’ll call down all the saints to bless the day, or night, you blew into my shack in a snowstorm.”
The two men sat on talking while the sun rose higher, and the stirring flies and mosquitoes advanced to the attack. They talked and ate, and drank tea with sugar, discussing all the details of a proposition that looked to be wild enough to satisfy even so reckless a creature as Dan Quinlan.
And Dan fell headlong for the whole thing. He questioned closely. He argued points all along the line. And Pryse realised something of the extent of the latent ability he possessed. But in the end full agreement was arrived at between them. And when the time came for Dan’s departure, and his horse was saddled, and he was ready to lift his huge body into its seat, a great change had been wrought in their relations. For Pryse, Dan Quinlan had suddenly become a shrewd, long-headed creature, with a great capacity and foresight; and for Dan, Pryse was no longer a fugitive from justice, but a creature of infinite sympathy, whom he asked nothing better than to serve and support.
Dan leaned down from his saddle and gripped the lean hand held out to him.
“Say boy, I want to tell you something,” he cried, with one of his boisterous laughs. “You got me plumb in the vitals with this thing. Same as if you’d pushed a gun there. You can count me for it body and soul.”
Pryse smiled up in response.
“So long, Dan,” he said. “A week of this grass’ll see my poor old plug fit, and I’ll be down along by your shanty. Get those things in train I told you about. You can’t ever tell. This thing has come out of my own selfish need. It looks like I’ll be more glad of it than—anybody else. You see, I was condemned to five years’ hard labour. And until those years of penitentiary have been served they’re always hanging over me. So long. May the saints of your queer old country bless you.”
CHAPTER VII
In New York
MOST of New York—that is, all those more fortunate individuals who were not actually tied to the city by the necessities of business, were somewhere on the seashore, or up in the hills, seeking cool, bracing air with which to sooth their jaded nerves. The heat was torrid. The noise and the city odours burdened life to an almost insupportable extent. There was no shade anywhere that could help things, and not a breath of air, except that set in motion by artificial means in the dwellings, was stirring to make things easier. The sun scorched down on the immaculate streets from early dawn to late evening. And even as late as nearing midnight the furious mercury registered anything up to eighty degrees of humid heat.
It was the one time in the year when the bustle and rush of the great hotels was at its lowest ebb. The telephone boys had time to sweat at leisure. The head-porters had breathing space from their everlasting task of booking railroad “reservations” for their transient custom. Even the waiters were able to give a personal touch of interest to their guests. But for all the greater ease of service the leisure thus obtained was more than counter-balanced by the discomfort of the appalling humidity.