THE RACE FOR NUMBER ONE
"Huh! Get on to the glad rags!"
Shorty surveyed his partner with simulated disapproval, and Smoke, vainly attempting to rub the wrinkles out of the pair of trousers he had just put on, was irritated.
"They sure fit you close for a second-hand buy," Shorty went on. "What was the tax?"
"One hundred and fifty for the suit," Smoke answered. "The man was nearly my own size. I thought it was remarkable reasonable. What are you kicking about?"
"Who? Me? Oh, nothin'. I was just thinkin' it was goin' some for a meat-eater that hit Dawson in an ice-jam, with no grub, one suit of underclothes, a pair of mangy moccasins, an' overalls that looked like they'd ben through the wreck of the Hesperus. Pretty gay front, pardner. Pretty gay front. Say—?"
"What do you want now?" S
