The tears were running down Jem Moor’s face.
“‘Leven Hundred odd,” said he, “and I ain’t a red. Not a red.”
The Inger threw up his head.
“Lord Harry,” he cried. “Why didn’t I think of it before? Buck up!” he cried, bringing down his hand on Jem’s little shoulder. “And drink up! Come along in!”
He led the way to the Mission Saloon, and bade the man take orders for everybody. Then he went to the back of the place, and found for himself ink and a pen, and tore a leaf from a handy account book. When he had filled in the name of his bank, he wrote and signed:
“Pay to Bunchy Haight, Twelve Hundred Dollars and be damned to him.”
Then he wrote out a receipt to Jem Moor, with a blank for the sum and for Bunchy’s signature.
When he could, he drew Jem in a corner and thrust at him the papers. The little man stared at them, with a peculiarly ugly, square dropping of his jaw, and eyes pointed at top.
“Don’t bust,” said the Inger, “and don’t think it’s you. It ain’t you. The check isn’t drawn to you, is it? I want to hell-and-devil Bunchy some, that’s all. Shut up your mouth!” he added, when Jem tried gaspingly to thank him.