“Leavin’ one guy on de job. Do we bump him off?”
“Not necessary. A quart of bootleg whiskey reached him this afternoon. Time we get there, he’ll be dead to the world.”
“You sent de booze?”
“Merrick didn’t,” Prowers answered, with his impish grin.
“Sure he ain’t on de wagon?”
“Dead sure. He can’t leave it alone.”
“Looks like a lead pipe,” Cig admitted. “But de jinx on me—When I gunned dat Tug Hollister I’d ’a’ swore I got him good. Nothin’ works.”
Jake could not quite forbear sarcasm. “You’d ought to take one o’ these here correspondence courses in efficiency. It’ll be different to-night, though. I ain’t used to fallin’ down on anything I go after.”
“Meanin’ that I do?” Cig demanded sourly out of the corner of a drooping mouth.
“Meanin’ you ain’t been lucky lately. Let it go at that.”