Jim’s red-rimmed eyes seemed to brighten at the mention of the amount.
No doubt he had visions of another long, glorious drunk at Rocky Gulch, or elsewhere.
To get loaded clean up to the neck, and keep so indefinitely, was probably Jim’s idea of supreme bliss.
At any rate, that was the accepted opinion of those who knew him best.
As Gideon Prawle put up his foot to mount to the front seat of the wagon a sudden exclamation from the boys attracted his attention.
He looked ahead, and saw that the two oncoming strangers were almost upon them.
“Mr. Prawle,” said Jack, in a low, tense tone, “we’ve turned the trick not a moment too soon. Here come Otis Clymer and Dave Plunkett.”
“The dickens you say!” exclaimed Gideon, as he started up the horse and looked hard at the two men. “Which is which?”
“Clymer is the smaller of the two.”
“I’ve a great mind to have it out with him right here for trying to do me up,” said Prawle, with a resolute look and a snap of his eyes.