“No, I do’ wanta do that,” said the other with contorted face. “I’ll get the five hundred here for’ you in an hour.”
“And about the five thousand dollars reward? I think I’d better have a word of writing on that.”
“You mean you don’t trust me?” snapped the other. “I’m good for five million dollars to-morrow in this town.”
“I know you are—in writing,” agreed the other equably. “That’s why I want your valued signature. You see, to be quite frank, I haven’t the fullest confidence in gentlemen in your line of business.”
“I’ll have my lawyer draw up a form of contract and mail it after you to-morrow,” promised the quack with a crafty look.
“No, you wo—” began Average Jones; but he broke off with a smile. “Very well,” he amended. “If things work out as I figure them, that will do. And,” he added, dropping into his significant drawl and looking the quack flatly in the eye, “don’t you—er—bank on my—er—not understanding your offer—and—er—you.”
Uncomfortably pondering this reply, Doctor Hoff set about the matter of the expense money. Mean time a telegram came which settled the matter of immediate destination. It apprised Average Jones that, a fortnight previous, this paragraph had appeared in the paid columns of the Yuma Yucca:
WANTED-Small, flat-bottomed sailboat. Centerboard type preferred. Hasty, care this office.
Average Jones bought a ticket for Yuma.
Disembarking at the Yuma station three days later, Average Jones blinked in the harsh sunlight at a small, compactly built, keen-eyed man, roughly dressed for the trail.