“Shucks!” exclaimed Langley. “She was the one who busted up Angel’s games that night. She swore he was crooked. He wouldn’t want her, Butch.”
“Mebby not; I was jist guessin’; but Slim sure does. Where do yuh suppose old Rance is hidin’ out?”
“He ain’t hidin’; he’s foggin’. Betcha ten to one he never comes back, Butch.”
“No, I wouldn’t bet on it, Jim.”
“How much do yuh want to bet?”
They turned quickly to face Hashknife, who had come up behind them unnoticed.
“Why, I—I dunno,” faltered Langley. “How much do yuh want to bet, Hartley?”
“Anywhere from a hundred to a thousand—at one-to-ten, Langley. It looks like easy money to me.”
Hashknife had exactly fifty dollars in his pocket. If it hadn’t been that Sleepy’s luck had been good at the Red Arrow, both of them would have been broke by this time.
But Langley wouldn’t bet, and Hashknife had been sure of it. He knew Langley’s type very well.