Victor Burnham ripped out an oath in a low tone that made up in foulness what it lacked in volume.
“I’m not asking what you’d do,” he rasped. “I want you to do this thing for me, and I’ll pay you for doing it.”
“You will give me the thousand you promised if you win the race? I agreed to take that, but it was only for seeing that the machine was in perfect condition. I didn’t bargain for any real crooked work for that money,” growled Dan.
“It was understood.”
“No, it wasn’t. If you want anything more than straight goods from me, you’ve got to hand over something more than a thousand—a great deal more.”
“I’ll give you another thousand.”
“Making two thousand altogether?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll do what you want me to. But—wait a moment. One thousand will have to be paid, whether you win or not. I’m not taking all the chances. Suppose I get at the Thunderbolt, and I’m seen. Where would I come in? It might take a thousand dollars for a lawyer to clear me. I’ve got to have a thousand before I’ll take the contract. You know I’m square. I won’t take your money and not do the job.”