"By cracky, Grant, I just
got sight of the remnants of that dig I gave you. It was a beauty,
wasn't it?"
Arkwright moved uneasily, fumbled at his collar, tried to smile
carelessly.
"I certainly am the luckiest devil," Craig went on. "Now, what a
stroke pushing you over and throttling you was!" And he again
laughed loudly.
"I don't follow you," said Grant sourly.
"What a vanity box you are! You can't take a joke. Now, they're
always poking fun at me--pretty damn nasty! some of it--but don't
I always look cheerful?"
"Oh--YOU!" exclaimed Grant in disgust.
"And do you know why?" demanded Craig, giving him a rousing slap
on the knee. "When I find it hard to laugh I begin to think of the
greatest joke of all--the joke I'll have on these merry boys when
the cards are all played and I sweep the tables. I think of that,
and, by gosh, I fairly roar!"
"Do you talk that way to convince yourself?"
Craig's eyes were suddenly shrewd. "Yes," said he, "and to
convince you, and a lot of other weak-minded people who believe
all they hear. You'll find out some day that the world thinks with
its ears and its mouth, my boy. But, as I say, who but I could
have tumbled into such luck as came quite accidentally out of that
little 'rough-house' of mine at your expense?"
"Don't see it," said Grant.
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