"I guess there's nothing sure in this world, except that no saint was ever a financial genius. Sure? Say, how can we be sure till we've fixed things the way we want 'em? But I tell you we've got to make good. I won't believe we can fail. We mustn't fail. If only Peter can get hold of Slosson's messages. Only one will do. If he can do that, and it's what I expect, why—the whole thing becomes just a practical joke, only not so harmful."
Gordon attacked his food with a healthy appetite, and the girl watched him happily.
"It's the cleverest thing ever," she cried, "and—and I can't think how you thought of it, and, having thought of it—dared to attempt to carry it out."
Gordon smiled.
"I'm not clever, but—I did think of it, didn't I? And as to carrying it out, why, I guess we're the same as the others. We're 'sharps.' We're land pirates. We're ground sharks."
Hazel set her cup down.
"But you are clever. I didn't mean it that way."
"You're the first person ever told me."
"Am I?" Hazel blushed. Nor did she know why. Gordon, watching her, sat entranced.
"Sure. Most everybody reckons I'm just a—a bit of an athlete—that's all. My sister Gracie never gets tired of telling me what an all-sorts-of-fool I am."