We'll get along, old man, on my money, till the times
mend."
Dick rose, tall and stalwart; and then he smiled, not unkindly, at the
squat, ungainly 'Bishop.'
"You're a good chap," he said quietly. "Shake hands, and-good-bye."
"Why, where are you going?"
"Ah! Who knows? If the fairy tales are true, we may meet again later."
Crisp stared at the speaker in horror. He had reason to know that Dick
was reckless, but this dare-devil despair apalled him. Yet he had wit
enough to attempt no remonstrance, so he gulped down his, whisky and
waited.
"It's no use craning at a blind fence," continued Dick. "Sooner or
later we all come to the jumping-off place. I've come to it to-night.
You can give me a decent funeral--the governor will stump up for that
--and there will be pickings for you. You can read the service,
'Bishop.' Gad! I'd like to see you in a surplice."
"Please, don't," pleaded the Rev. Tudor.
"He'll be good for a hundred sovs.," continued Dick. "You can do the
thing handsomely for half that."
"For God's sake, shut up."
"Pooh! why shouldn't you have your fee? That hundred would start us
nicely in the saloon business, and----"
He was walking up and down the dusty, dirty floor.
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