"Well, if I did, it's none of your business," snapped Jack Murray with an evil glance.
"Then why make it our business by coming here bellyaching to me and Craft?" Sam Larder wished to know.
"I came to you because I want my money—sixteen hundred dollars that bandit Bill Wingo stole off me."
"He didn't say anything about any sixteen hundred," said Felix Craft, his eyes beginning to gleam. "Tell us about it."
"Yeah," urged Sam. "Give it a name."
Jack proceeded to give it a name—several names and all profane. When he was calmer he gave a fairly truthful account of the financial transaction between Hazel Walton, Bill Wingo and himself.
"And I'm telling you here and now," he said in conclusion, "that six hundred dollars is too much for that broken-down team of jacks. And a thousand dollars for putting a few holes in Riley Tyler is plumb ridiculous. My Gawd, he'll be out of bed in a month. Wha' t'ell you laughin' at?"
For his hearers were laughing—laughing immoderately. They whooped, they pounded the table, they beat each other on the back till they sank exhausted into their chairs.
Jack demanded again to be told what they were laughing at.
"I'll leave it to anybody if this ain't the funniest thing ever happened in the territory," declared Sam Larder, when he could speak with coherence.