“Yea-a-ah, I guess I know what you mean,” sighed Le Moyne. “I’ll see you later, Lee.”
Barnhardt went back to his office, glowing with the self satisfaction that comes to men who love to gossip. Le Moyne met Goode at the Oasis, and Goode was carrying just a little too much liquor. Goode happened to be extolling Hashknife and Sleepy to the bartender, who evidently didn’t care a bit about it.
“I tell yuh, they’re invin-shi-ble,” he declared. “Bes’ pair of two-handed fighters on earth. Betcha odds, tha’s what’ll do.”
“Hello, Plenty,” said Le Moyne.
Goode goggled at Le Moyne.
“Howza paymashter? Whatcha usin’ f’r money these days, Chet?”
“Good yellow gold, Plenty. What do you want to bet on?”
“Don’t get him started,” advised the bartender. “He’s drunk. Wants to bet odds that Hartley and Stevens will find the men who robbed your pay-roll.”
Le Moyne laughed and bought a drink for every one at the bar.
“I’m tellin’ yuh,” declared Goode. “’F they was after me, I’d run like ——, and pray every jump.”