is pocket instead, and
wrote upon it. It seemed to be one of a stock for such emergencies,
for it bore no engraving.

"If you'll carry this to Harry Larrabie, he'll understand. He'll give
you what you need and send you against Condit Saturday night. Short
notice for you, I know, but you look to be in shape." He glanced at
the lean length.

"One hundred and twenty-eight?"

"Thirty-two," said Blue Jeans, and somehow resentfully.

"Fine--fine! Well?"

Blue Jeans had learned to make decisions with suddenness. He gave this
one, however, a full five seconds' consideration. Then he reached out
and possessed himself of the card.

"Scratch Blake and send bearer against Condit Saturday. If he looks as
good to you as he has to me, keep him busy. Some day I may have
employment for him myself."

It was signed with the single letter D.

"There are no strings to it, after Condit?" Blue Jeans asked finally.

"None--if you want to quit. None."

"Then what is there in it for you?"

Blue Jeans had been schooled to be skeptical concerning any act masking
as purely philanthropic. But the huge man wisely disclaimed such
motives.

"Maybe you won't want to quit,--not right away." He had taken accurate
account of the symptoms. Everybody wanted money, but this man's
desire, he discerned, though great, was curbed and disciplined. It was
not feverish, as if ambitious merely of a few days of debauch in town.
It was controlled, and fixed and steady.

"You'll find other two hundreds waiting," said he.

"That's your gamble?"

"That's my gamble."

Again the card.

"There's no sum mentioned here."

Keenly the huge man's regard played over him. A scarecrow without
question,--poverty had had shabby sport with him,--but honest. You
couldn't mistake it. The large man's flattery had been ill-chosen, yet
well-founded. He drew two one hundred dollar bills from a folder and
handed them to Blue Jeans.

"That'll let you buy some clothes, too," he said, and largely. And
this largeness was his second bad mistake.

Blue Jeans had risen, and as they stood side by side, one thing was now
strangely emphasized. Travel-soiled as he was, and tattered and marked
with signs of conflict, Blue Jeans was the cleaner of the two, the more
wholesome, and immaculate. For what _he_ was stood out upon the huge
man in every fold of flesh.

And Blue Jeans was at no pains to hide his distaste. He was no
prude--no sissy--but somewhere