"Half of it, half of two million!" Young Dick cried. "At that rate I'm
a million richer every year. Get that, and hang on to it, and listen
to me. When I'm good and willing to go back--but not for years an'
years--we'll fix it up, you and I. When I say the word, you'll write
to your father. He'll jump out to where we are waiting, pick me up,
and cart me back. Then he'll collect the thirty thousand reward from
my guardians, quit the police force, and most likely start a saloon."

"Thirty thousand's a hell of a lot of money," was Tim's nonchalant way
of expressing his gratitude.

"Not to me," Young Dick minimized his generosity. "Thirty thousand
goes into a million thirty-three times, and a million's only a year's
turnover of my money."

But Tim Hagan never lived to see his father a saloon keeper. Two days
later, on a trestle, the lads were fired out of an empty box-car by a
brake-man who should have known better. The trestle spanned a dry
ravine. Young Dick looked down at the rocks seventy feet below and
demurred.

"There's room on the trestle," he said; "but what if the train starts
up?"

"It ain't goin' to start--beat it while you got time," the brakeman
insisted. "The engine's takin' water at the other side. She always
takes it here."

But for once the engine did not take water. The evidence at the
inquest developed that the engineer had found no water in the tank and