“An' you don't want me to work a commission for you on Diablo?” he asked, desperately.
“No; I sha'n't bet on him at present. And say, Faust, in future when I want you to do any betting on my horses, on my account, you know, I'll tell you. Understand? You needn't worry, that is—other people. I'll tell you myself.”
“I didn't mean—” Faust had started to try a plausible explanation, but Crane stopped him.
“Never mind; the matter is closed out now.”
“But, sir,” persisted Faust, “if you've got your money all on, can I take a bit now? Is it good business? We've worked together a good deal without misunderstanding before.”
“Yes, we have,” commented Crane.
“Yes; an' I'd like to be in on this now. I didn't mean to forestall you.”
Crane raised his hand in an attitude of supplication for the other man to desist, but Faust was not to be stopped.
“I made a mistake, an' I'm sorry; an' if you will tell me whether Diablo's good business for the Brooklyn, I'll back him now at the shorter price. There's no use of us bein' bad friends.”
“I think Diablo's a fairly good bet,” said Crane, quietly, entirely ignoring the question of friendship.