The look that passed between Plug Ivory and Plug Avery carried all the pith of the quotation: “The mills of the gods grind slowly, but they grind exceeding small.”
“So am I,” grunted Buck, surlily. “No, I’m sorry he didn’t live to torment you. No, the only thing I’m really sorry about is that ’twas Brick Avery’s money he got away with.”
Avery sighed.
“But I want to say to you, Signory Rosy-elly,” continued Buck, with a burst of pride quite excusable, tipping his hat to one side and hooking his thumb into the armhole of his vest, “it wasn’t my money you got, and it never will be my money you’ll get. You just made the mistake of your life when you run away from me.”
“He’s got fifty thousand dollars in the bank,” hoarsely whispered Avery, vicariously sharing in this pride of prosperity—the prosperity beyond her reach.
“Uh-huh! Correct!” corroborated Buck, surveying her in increasing triumph. This moment was really worth waiting through the years for, he reflected.
“Twenty can play as well as one,” croaked the parrot, his beady eye pressed between the bars of his cage.
The signora glanced up at this new speaker, eyed Elkanah with a sage look that he returned, and then, after a moment’s reflection, said:
“Thanks for the suggestion, old chap. That is to say, three can play as well as two, when there’s fifty thousand in the bank. Buck, you know I’m always outspoken and straight to the point. No underhanded bluff for me. I’m going to sue you for ten thousand.”
“Crack ’em down, gents!” remarked Elkanah, grimly.