...
Yet it stood, and it stands, waxing fat in the folly of man and his
greed.
And to this place P. Sybarite was travelling to deliver a message from
a famous demi-rep to a notorious gang leader; with only a .25 calibre
Colt's automatic and his native wit and audacity to guard the moderate
fortune that he carried with him in cash--a single hundredth part of
which would have been sufficient to purchase his obliteration at the
hands of the crew that ran the place.
However, in their ignorance his safety inhered; and it was not really
necessary that he advertise his swollen fortunes; and as for the gold
in his trousers pocket--a ponderable weight, liable to chink
treacherously when he moved--P. Sybarite removed this and thoughtfully
cached it under one of the cushions of his cab. It seemed a long
chance to take with a hundred dollars: but a hundred dollars wasn't a
great deal, after all, to a man as flush as he; and better lose it all
(said he) than make a noise like a peripatetic mint in a den of
thieves and worse....
The cab drawing up to the curb, out P. Sybarite hopped, a dollar in
hand for the chauffeur, and the admonition: "I'm keeping you; wait
till I come out, if I'm all night; and don't let your motor die,
'cause I _may_ be in a hurry."
"Gotcha," said the chauffeur tersely; pocketed the bill; lighted a
cigarette....
P. Sybarite held back an instant to inspect the approach.
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