Big John looked at him with frank disapproval as he took a silver matchbox from his vest and fired the imported "paper pipe."
"You're the silver-plated boy, all right," muttered Big John.
"Sterling, you big duffer," grinned Ollie. "Nothing plated about me."
"The dope they roll up in that rice paper and hand you with your cute little monogram is plate, all right—coffin plate——"
"Oh, splash!" sneered Ollie. "You're a nice one to lecture a fellow, I must say. Cut it out, John, and tell me what we're here for."
Big John shook his red head forebodingly and moved off toward the bend of the wooded road. Here he sat down just within a fringe of brush, in such a position that he had a good view of the straightaway stretch toward Waunakee, and Ollie pushed in beside him.
"You know George Lorry, all right, eh, Ollie?" Big John observed.
A flush crossed Ollie's sinister face.
"You bet I know him!" said he. "The fellows used to call him 'Sis,' because he was so nice and ladylike. But I've known for a long time there was good stuff in George, and that he'd be a first-rate chap if some one would only cut him adrift from his mother's apron strings. I got him started right," and a very complacent look drifted over Ollie's dark features. "He can smoke cigareets as well as the next one, now, and play as good a game of cards as any fellow in our set. He's got me to thank for that."