“Be a sport and make it a million apiece,” says Dirty. “We’ll never live to collect and a man don’t mind dying for a big stake.”
“You can keep what you get from the bank.”
“We ain’t goin’ to take no money,” says I. “We’re just goin’ in and come right out again. Sabe? Folks will think it’s a robbery.”
“I want this done right,” says he. “I want the real thing. Take it and then bring it back.”
“Well,” says Dirty, “if you feel thataway—how about yuh, Ike?”
“It makes me no never mind, Dirty. When they finds my remains with my dear hands folded around stolen money it won’t hurt my reputation none. I’m willing to do danged near anything, so as we get away where I can take off this beard. My own whiskers are growing circles inside ’em.”
“Is the hundred satisfactory?” asks Waldemar.
“In advance,” nods Dirty. “I’m goin’ to enjoy myself before the old feller with the hay-hook comes along and cuts me off at the pockets.”
Waldemar starts to argue, but we both stands pat and he gives us the money. A hundred dollars is a lot of money to a man who expects to die the next day. There ain’t no rainy days in his future. He don’t care a whoop what comes to pass. Some folks might prepare themselves by praying, but me and Dirty never have asked for anything we ain’t got the nerve to go and get for ourselves. We just throws dull care out of the window and gets cheerful.