with you?" asked Daw, a shade too eagerly.

Wix chuckled, his broad shoulders heaving and his pink face rippling.

"No use, kind friend," said he. "Just dismiss it from your active but
greedy mind. If anybody gets away unduly with a cent of this wad, all
they need to do is to prove it to me, and I'll make them a present of
the balance. No, my dark-complected brother, the bulk of it is in a
safe place in little old New York, where I can go get it as I need it;
but I have enough along to buy, I think. It seems to me you bought
last," and they both grinned at the reminiscence.

"I wasn't thinking of trying to annex any of that coin," lied Mr. Daw
glibly, and changing entirely his attitude toward Mr. Wix as his
admiration grew; "but I was thinking that we might cook up something
together. I'll put up dollar for dollar with you. I've just been
harvesting, myself."

Again Wix chuckled.

"Declined with thanks," he returned. "I don't mind trailing around a
bit with you when we get to New York, and also meeting the carefully
assorted selection of dead-sure-thing geniuses who must belong to your
set, but I'll go no further. For one thing, I don't like the idea of a
partner. It cramps me to split up. For another thing, I wouldn't like
to hook up in business with you. You're not safe enough; you trifle
too much with the law, which is not only foolish but unnecessary."

"Yes?" retorted Daw. "How about this eight thousand or so that you
committed mayhem on Filmore to get?"

"Good, honest money," asserted Wix. "I hate to boast about your
present companion, but I don't owe Filmore a cent. I merely worked up
a business and sold my share in it. Of course, they didn't know I was
selling it, but they'll find out when they go over the records, which
are perfectly straight. If, after buying the chance to go into
business, they don't know what to do with it, it isn't my fault."

A traveling man who had once been in the office of The La Salle Grain
and Stock Brokerage Company for an afternoon's flyer, and who
remembered the cordial ease with which Wix had taken his money, came
over to the table.

"Hello, Wix; how's tricks?" he hailed.

Wix looked up at him blankly but courteously.

"Beg pardon," he returned.

The face of the traveling man fell.

"Aren't you Mr. Wix, of Filmore?"

"I'm afraid not," replied Wix, smiling with great cordiality. "Sorry
to disappoint you, old man."

"Really, I beg your pardon," said the traveling