"I've been watching you for fifteen or twenty minutes," answered the man.
"Piping me off, eh? Why was that? What's your graft, anyhow? Put me wise and oblige."
"Oh, drop it!" said the other disgustedly. "You know me, all right enough. Look!"
The man wore a black beard. Lifting his hands as he spoke he plucked it away, revealing a smoothly shaven face.
"Recognize me now?" he queried, with a husky laugh.
"If I do I'm a geezer," answered the youth. "Why the bogus wind teasers? Gee, but this is a warm play."
"You make me tired!" scowled the man. "My name's Whistler, as you know well enough."
"Whistler, Whistler," murmured the fugitive. "On the level, Whistler, you've got past my guard. But what's the diff? You're one-two-seven with me for lifting me out of that bunch of trouble. But, tell me, whose game of muggins is this, and what's the stake? Anything higher than two-call-five and a quarter to see puts me out of the running. You've heard of the bank that broke the man at Monte Carlo? Well, listen—I'm It. Please drop that dizzy front, old fel, and tell me why you're a counterfeit. Not being a has-wasser myself, I'm game for anything that promises kopecks, simoleons, or anything white or yellow with the eagle bird and E Pluribus Get-there on the side. Have one?"
With two yellow-stained fingers, the youth pulled a cigarette box from under his sweater and offered it to the man. The latter, apparently in a daze, shook his head negatively. With a grin, the fugitive lighted a cigarette and put away the box.
"Now, Whistler," he pattered, "cut away with the straight dope and tell me all about it."