Whistler narrowed his eyes and studied the fugitive's face for a minute.
"You've got more tricks in your basket, Matt King," said he, "than I've given you credit for, up to now."
"Thanks, Whistler," drawled the youth, "you'll never hear me putting up a roar when that sort of con talk is shoved at me. Yes, indeed, I've gathered much knowledge while knocking about our little planet. Experience came to me early and says, 'Joe, put your little hand in mine and let's go out and take a bird's-eye view of the Universe.' We went. Perhaps that's why, at the present speaking, I'm in N. O. all but broke. Being bashful and retiring, I don't like to feature myself; but you're keen, Whistler, and I couldn't dodge you."
The torrent of language flowed steadily, and as it flowed Whistler grew more and more surprised.
"Great jumping je-lucifer!" he muttered. "You've changed a whole lot in the last few days, King. I suppose that happened when you took to cigarettes?"
"Nay, not according to league rules." The lad allowed a mouthful of smoke to trickle out through his lips and nose. "King, eh?" he went on. "How you do keep handing me the bokays. I was king of the track when I rode the ponies, king of the plungers when I played 'em, and king of the 'bos now they've broke me. Oh, yes, call me King by all means."
Whistler, still staring, sat back and mumbled to himself.
"What do you call yourself, now?" he asked.
"A mistake. I took the wrong turn at the forks of the road. Prosperityville lay on the other track and I'm just over the hill from the poorhouse. Also I call myself Dennis, and I spell it M-u-d. When I was christened they named me Joe, and the other part of it was Dashington. Generally they referred to me as Dash. That's about all I amount to, now; just a dash—a straight line that ought to stand for something, but don't."
"You're a pretty slick counterfeit yourself, King," laughed Whistler. "I never dreamed that Motor Matt could play himself up like this."