Not six feet apart; Old Nute in a
sable-lined coat and Charlie in his hand-me-down, at a pound,
three and six."
The muscles in Barclay's big jaw tightened.
"Maybe there is a joker that runs the world, and maybe the devil
runs it. Anyhow it's a queer system. Here was Charlie Tavor,
straight as a string, down and out. And here was Nute Hardman,
so crooked that a fly couldn't light on him and stand level, with
everything that money could buy.
"I cast it up while the taxi stood there beside the car. Nute
was consul in a South American port that you couldn't spell and
couldn't find on the map. He didn't have two dollars to rub
together, until Charlie Tavor turned up. There he sat, out of
the world, forgotten, growing moss and getting ready to rot; and
God Almighty, or the devil, or whatever it is, steered Charlie
Tavor in to him with the bar silver.
"He picked Charlie to the bone and cut for the States. And this
damned crooked luck went right along with him. He was in a big
apartment, now, up on Fifth Avenue and four-flushing toward every
point of the compass. His last stunt was `patron of science.
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