"Thank you, suh. Thank you." The negro bobbed as he made the proper
change--and returned it to his own pocket.
Greek appeared not to have seen him or heard. He poured his own drink
and shoved the bottles toward his friend, who helped himself with
skilful celerity.
"Suppose the old gent will hold out long this time, Greek?" came the
query, after a swallow of the whisky and seltzer, a shrewd look in the
pale eyes.
Greek laughed carelessly.
"I guess we'll have time to see a good deal of San Francisco before he
caves in. The old man put what he had to say in words of one syllable.
But we won't worry about that until we get there."
"Did he shell out at all?"
"He didn't quite give me carte blanche," retorted Greek, grinning. "A
ticket to ride as far as I wanted to, and five hundred in the long
green. And it's going rather fast, Roger, my boy."
"And my tickets came out of the five hundred?"
Greek nodded.
"It's devilish the way my luck's gone lately," grumbled Roger. "I
don't know when I can ever pay--"
Greek put up his hand swiftly.
"You don't pay at all," he said, emphatically. "This is my treat. It
was mighty decent of you to drop everything and come along with me
into this d----d exile. And," he finished, easily, "I'll have more
money than I'll know what to do with when the old man gets
soft-hearted again.
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