Guy Hereford stared at his cousin in blank amazement.
"Will you kindly tell me what you do mean?" he asked icily.
"Yes, I'll tell you," said Deacon harshly. "Look here, Guy, I'm full up with playing bottle washer, and it seems to me this gives me just the chance I've been looking for. Need I explain?"
"I think you'd better," said Guy Hereford grimly.
"All right. I'll give you straight goods. I want to be paid, and well paid, for my evidence. Here are you with a place of your own and a good allowance from your father, you've a decent house and a first-class pony. And as for me, I haven't a red cent, and am forced to do grove work like an infernal nigger. As I said before, I'm sick of it, and it's going to stop right here."
Hereford looked his cousin up and down. Then he said, "I knew you'd sunk pretty low, Oliver, but I didn't quite realize the depths you've dropped to. Whose fault is it you are hard up? Your own. You had more than I ever had, and chucked it all away. People were decent to you down here until you were caught cheating at poker. And now you want to force me to pay you hush money under threats of false evidence. May I ask how much you consider your evidence worth?"
Guy's tone of icy contempt brought a dull red flush to the other's sallow cheeks. But he answered brazenly, "I'll take a thousand dollars."
Guy laughed.
"I wouldn't give you a thousand cents."
"Then you'll hang," retorted Oliver viciously.