Wilbur gets his money back and everything is even all around,
but the wise guys are the only ones who want to lay down.
"Wilbur hands them a game of cheerful chatter and they don't
dare quit. Foxy Wilbur sits there until 3 a.m., raking in their
money, and incidentally corrals some that belongs to the wealthy
wops. In the meantime I am doing the earnest conversation act
with an old dowager that I met the second day out and she is
telling me about her country home in Devonshire or some other
one of these shire things. She sorta took a fancy to me and
insisted that Wilbur and I should run out there for a week-end.
Which end of the week she didn't say. But I guess if we go
Sunday we are safe. To hear this old dame tell it, she must own
about nine million acres up in the country, and her husband has
all kinds of wild animals--lions, tigers, elephants and all that
truck that are trained to be shot. She called it a shooting
lodge. Probably a branch of the Elks. This old party ceases her
harangue and I beat it to the air-felt and am pounding my ear
when Wilbur kicks in with a souse on.
"I come out of the hay and am getting ready to call him to a
fare-you-well when he flashes his bundle. My anger vanished in a
moment and I just reach out and cop the coin and roll over and
goes to sleep. Wilbur sleeps on the floor until I took
compassion on him and rolled him on the lounge.
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