"He wouldn't come across with a five in advance, either," says Snick. "How's that for the granite heart?"
"It's like other tales of woe I've heard you tell," says I, "and generally they could be traced to your backin' three kings, or gettin' an inside tip on some beanery skate."
"That's right," says he, "but never again. I've quit the sportin' life for good. Just the same, if I don't show up on the waggon for the 'leven o'clock trip I'll be turned loose. If you don't believe it Shorty, I'll——"
"Ah, don't go callin' any notary publics," says I. "Here's the V to take up that ticket. But say, Snick; how many times do I have to buy out that eye before I get an equity in it?"
"It's yours now; honest, it is," says he. "If you say so, I'll write out a bill of sale."
"No," says I, "your word goes. Do you pass it?"
He said he did.
"Thanks," says I. "I always have thought that was a fine eye, and I'm proud to own it. So long, Snick."
There's one good thing about Snick Butters; after he's made his touch he knows enough to fade; don't hang around and rub it in, or give you a chance to wish you hadn't been so easy. It's touch and go with him, and before I'd got out the last of my remarks he was on his way.
It wa'n't more'n half josh, though, that I was givin' him about that phony pane of his. It was a work of art, one of the bright blue kind. As a general thing you can always spot a bought eye as far as you can see it, they're so set and stary. But Snick got his when he was young and, bein' a cute kid, he had learned how to use it so well that most folks never knew the difference. He could do about everything but see with it.