or misfortune "treated those two impostors just the same," Jim Kendric was exactly what he appeared to be, a devil-may-care sort of fellow who had infinite faith in his tomorrow and who had never learned to love money.

Kendric was relieved when, half an hour later, Twisty Barlow came back.  Kendric's mood was boisterous from the sheer joy of being among friends and once more as good as on home soil.  He went up and down among them with his pockets turned wrong-side out and hanging eloquently, swapping yarns, inviting recitals of wild doings, making a man here and there join him in one of the old songs, singing mightily himself.  He had just given a brief sketch of the manner in which he had acquired his latest stake; how down in Mexico he had done business with a man whom he did not trust.  Hence Kendric had insisted on having the whole thing in good old U. S. money and then had ridden like the devil beating tan bark to keep ahead of the half-dozen ragged cut-throats who, he was sure, had been started on his trail.

"And now that I'm rid of it," he said, "I can get a good night's sleep! Who wants to be a millionaire anyway?"

He saw that though Barlow had once more command of his features, there was still a feverish gleam in his eyes.  And, further, that with rising impatience Barlow was waiting for him.

"Come alive, Twisty, old mate," Kendric called to him.  "Limber up and give us a good old deep-sea chantey!"

Twisty stood where he was, eyeing him curiously.

"I want to talk to you, Jim," he said.  His voice like his look told of excitement repressed.

"It's early," retorted Kendric, "and talk will keep.  A night like this was meant for other things than for two old fools like you and me to sit in a corner with long faces.  Strike up the chantey."

"You're busted," said Barlow sharply; "You've had your fling and you've shot your wad.  Come along with me.  You know what shore I'm headin' to.  You know I've got my hooks in that old tub down to San Diego-----"

"There's a craft in San Diego," improvised Kendric lightly.   "With no cargo in her hold, And old Twisty Barlow's leased her For to fill her up with Gold. And he'd go a buccaneerin', privateerin', wildly steerin' For the beaches where the sun shines on whole banks of blazin' pearls----"

But his rhythm was getting away from him 

 Prev. P 15/185 next