“Such, as for instance?” asked Plunkett, with a wicked leer.
“No use of anticipating matters,” returned Clymer, wriggling out of an explanation; “let us wait till we see what the Mongolian accomplishes.”
“Huh!” snorted Plunkett, regarding his associate contemptuously.
“It is now nearly twenty-four hours since Meen Fun departed on his mission,” said Clymer, reflectively. “It is to be hoped we shall hear from him soon.”
“That man Prawle looks like a person who won’t bear fooling with,” remarked the Sackville hotel man. “If he should happen to tumble to the chink’s little game I should feel kinder sorry for Meen Fun. What do you think about it?”
“It will be his funeral, not ours,” replied Clymer, carelessly.
“It will be ours, too, for in that case we shouldn’t get the paper we want.”
Clymer frowned, and then feeling that talking was dry work ordered drinks for himself and his friend.
Coffey mixed and brought the liquor, and he did not forget himself in the order.
He judged from the liberal disposition of Plunkett especially that his new acquaintances were well supplied with the needful, and he was anxious to relieve them—without actually putting his hand in their pockets—of as much of their wad as he could entice in his direction.