“Now,” said Hergan, leaning over and resting his arms on the table, “the plan is to form a big pool and buy oil, and make enough at one haul to go back to civilization and live like a king. That is the scheme, boys. It's good.”
First Class Crawley opened his eyes slowly, and putting out his fat hand, began to caress the green cloth on the little round poker table.
“Billy,” he said slowly, “I expect that is a good scheme, and I expect there is money in it,—may be tubs of money, but me and Martin aint speculators; we never so much as saw a ticking machine in our life. We don't know anything about new-fangled ways to get rich. We 're both old fogies,—just common old fogies, and I reckon we had better stay out. Of course, I aint knocking on the scheme. It looks good, mighty good, but me and Martin aint young any longer; we 're getting old and heavy on our pins, and we aint got no nerve like we used to have. Still I aint knocking. Me and Martin would like to see you make a pile of money, would n't we, Martin?”
“Yes,” gurgled the owner of the Golden Horn, “we would that.”
