Et cetera, words with end and amen. Tip O'Gorman was a skilful scoundrel. He knew precisely how far to go and he rarely employed a shovel. For even the dullest have a wit flash now and then.
He soon had the jurist purring.
To Billy Wingo that evening came Tip O'Gorman; a bluff, hearty, good-hearted Tip; a Tip that told funny stories and was a good listener himself and laughed at the right place. You've heard it all before doubtless and know the method: "A chair for Mr. Dugan. He owns the stockyards. His pockets are full of greenbacks. Let him win as much as he can and don't forget to tell Patsy to be waiting for him at the corner with the lead pipe when he goes out."
The old, old game, you see. Shabby, moth-eaten through and through, fairly obvious; but it works—most of the time.
"That's fine whisky, Bill," observed Tip, cupping an affectionate hand ground his glass. "No, no, tempt me not, brother. I know when to stop, if I am old and sinful. A pleasant fire, a comfortable room, a hot drink, and a cold and winter's night. What more can a man want?"
"What indeed?" said Billy politely. Inwardly he thought, "What the devil does he want?"
You will perceive that the game was not running true to form. For it to be successful, the victim must not become a prey to low suspicion.
"Sworn in your deputies yet?" Tip made casual inquiry.
"Not yet. Storm might have kept 'em away."
Then all was not lost. Tip began to feel a mental glow. He had been counting on the storm.