“I was thinkin’ about that big robbery,” he said, when they were in their room that night. “They ought to pay a good reward for the return of that much money.”
Hashknife’s indifference nettled Sleepy.
“Oh, ... all right!” he snorted. “For once in our misguided lives, let’s show a little sense.”
“I’m with yuh—if I never see the back of my neck.”
“Then you’re a changed man,” declared Sleepy.
“Gettin’ old, I reckon.”
Hashknife stretched wearily, but his thin lips were smiling as he stripped off his thin, much-washed blue shirt, disclosing a lean, muscular torso. He had long arms, big hands; and his muscles rippled under his bronzed skin, as he snapped his arms back and forth in short arm punches which would have floored a man.
His waist was narrow, hips long and lean, and with his high-heeled boots off he moved with the grace of a cat.
Sleepy watched him admiringly.
“Too bad yuh didn’t take up prize-fightin’, Hashknife.”