“Mebbe you can’t.” Bill was actually smiling. And this fact so far influenced the other members of the trust that an audible titter went round the room. Then the gambler suddenly sat forward, and the old fierce gleam shone once more in his cold eyes. “Say,” he cried suddenly. “If a feller got the ‘drop’ on you with six bar’ls of a gun well-loaded, an’––guessed you’d best squeal, wot ’ud you do?”
“Squeal,” responded the puzzled Toby, with alacrity.
“You ken join the Trust. You sure got more savvee than I tho’t.”
Bill sat back grinning, while a roar of laughter concluded the founding of the Zip Trust.
But like all ceremonials, the matter had to be prolonged and surrounded with the frills of officialdom. Sunny called it organization, and herein only copied people of greater degree and self-importance. He plunged into his task with whole-hearted enthusiasm, and, with every word he uttered, preened himself in the belief that he was rapidly ascending in the opinion of Wild Bill, the only man on Suffering Creek for whose opinion he cared a jot.
He explained to his comrades, with all the vanity of a man whose inspiration has met with public approval, that in forming such a combine as theirs, it would be necessary to allot certain work, which he called “departments,” to certain individuals. He assured his fellow-members that such was always done in “way-up concerns.” It saved confusion, and ensured the work being adequately performed.
“Sort o’ like a noo elected gover’ment,” suggested Sandy sapiently.
“Wal, I won’t say that,” said Sunny. “Them fellers traipse around wi’ portyfolios hangin’ to ’em. I don’t guess we need them things. It’s too hot doin’ stunts like that.”
“Portfolios?” questioned Toby artlessly. “Wot’s them for?”
“Oh, jest nuthin’ o’ consequence. Guess it’s to make folks guess they’re doin’ a heap o’ work. No, what we need is to set each man his work this aways. Now Bill here needs to be president sure. Y’see, we must hev a ‘pres.’ Most everything needs a ‘pres.’ He’s got to sit on top, so if any one o’ the members gits gay he ken hand ’em a daisy wot’ll send ’em squealin’ an’ huntin’ their holes like gophers. Wal, Bill needs to be our ‘pres.’ Then there’s the ‘general manager.’ He’s the feller wot sets around an’ blames most everybody fer everything anyway, an’ writes to the noospapers. He’s got to have savvee, an’ an elegant way o’ shiftin’ the responsibility o’ things on them as can’t git back at him. He’s got to be a bright lad––”