"Stranger, you might as well hand me your money now," drawled Duff,
after a few moments had passed. "It'll save time."

"Your fly hasn't hopped yet," retorted the second man, with the air and
tone of one who could afford to lose thousands on such stupid bets.

The second man was of the kind on which Jim Duff fattened his purse.
Clarence Farnsworth, about twenty-five years of age, was as verdant a
"tenderfoot" as had lately graced Paloma, Arizona, with his presence.

Even the name of Clarence had moved so many men to laughter in this
sweltering little desert town that Farnsworth had lately chopped his
name to "Clare." Yet this latter had proved even worse; it sounded too
nearly like a girl's name.

So far as his financial condition went, Clarence had the look of one who
possessed money to spend. He was well-dressed, lived at the Mansion
House, often hired automobiles, entertained his friends lavishly, and
was voted a good enough fellow, though a simpleton.

"My fly's growing skittish, stranger," smiled Jim Duff. "He's on the
point of moving. You'd better whisper to your fly."

"I believe, friend," rejoined Clarence, "that my fly is taking nap. He
appears to be sound asleep. You certainly picked the more healthy fly."

Jim Duff gave his barber an all but imperceptible nudge in one elbow.
Though he gave no sign in return, that barber understood, and shifted
his shears in a way that, even at distance, alarmed the fly on the