“You can do a whole lot for me, amigo,” said McGlory. “Principally, though, I’m pining to learn whether two gold bars from Tucson, Arizona, are still in your strong box.”
The cashier was interested at once.
“Why do you ask?” he inquired, leaning back in his chair and studying the faces of the boys.
He was a proficient reader of character; as a matter of fact, he had to be. The ability to take a man’s sizing at a glance had saved him from many a pitfall.
“Now you’re hitting me right at home,” said the cowboy. “If that gold is here, I’m the happiest maverick that ever strayed from the Southwest; if it’s not here, I’m due to get unpleasant tidings from the colonel. You see, amigo, I’m the easy mark they call Joe McGlory.”
A slow smile was working its way over the cashier’s face. There was something open and free about Joe McGlory—too free, at times, those who did not know him might have been tempted to think.
“You don’t look much like the Joe McGlory who came here yesterday,” remarked the cashier casually.
The cowboy lopped down on the railing.
“I’m going to ask for a hot flat and a cup of ginger tea in a minute,” he murmured dejectedly. “Friend, was there a yellow-haired stranger here yesterday, in my clothes?”