The fingers with which Billy Wingo then proceeded to make a cigarette were steady and sure in every movement. Billy licked the length of the white roll, smoothed it down and twisted one end. Tip O'Gorman did not know what to make of him. Or rather he thought he knew too well, which frequently amounts to the same thing.
"You'd better trust me," rumbled Tip.
"Be reasonable, Tip. You ask for trust and you give me a stone."
"A stone?"
"What else is three to five thousand bucks, I'd like to know. I'm no child, man. I've got my growth, and I've put away childish things, including all-day suckers."
"You must take me for one."
"Not you, not in a million years. But—" Mr. Wingo paused and looked up at the ceiling. His lips moved. He muttered of figures and sums.
Tip O'Gorman awaited his pleasure. What else was there to do?
"I think between nine and ten thousand is nearer the correct amount for li'l me," Billy said at last.
"What?" screeched Tip, fairly jarred off his balance at last.