"Oh, you needn't think I ain't got the money," boasted Haylocks. He drew
forth a tightly rolled mass of bills as large as a teacup, and laid it
on the table.

"Got that for my share of grandmother's farm," he announced. "There's
$950 in that roll. Thought I'd come to the city and look around for a
likely business to go into."

"Bunco Harry" took up the roll of money and looked at it with almost
respect in his smiling eyes.

"I've seen worse," he said, critically. "But you'll never do it in them
clothes. You want to get light tan shoes and a black suit and a straw
hat with a colored band, and talk a good deal about Pittsburg and
freight differentials, and drink sherry for breakfast in order to work
off phony stuff like that."

"What's his line?" asked two or three shifty-eyed men of "Bunco Harry"
after Haylocks had gathered up his impugned money and departed.

"The queer, I guess," said Harry. "Or else he's one of Jerome's men.
Or some guy with a new graft. He's too much hayseed. Maybe that his--I
wonder now--oh, no, it couldn't have been real money."

Haylocks wandered on. Thirst probably assailed him again, for he dived
into a dark groggery on a side street and bought beer. At first sight
of him their eyes brightened; but when his insistent and exaggerated
rusticity became apparent their expressions changed to wary suspicion.

Haylocks swung his valise across the bar.