“Huh?” Again the listener’s mind failed to follow, and Locke repeated his words, concluding:  “It would make a new man of him.”

“Oh, he wouldn’t work.  Too lazy.”

“He’d have to if he were broke.”

“But he ain’t broke.  Didn’t I tell you ’s old man puts up reg’lar?  Fine man, too, Misser Anthony; owns railroads.”

“I’ll tell you how we can work it.  I’ve got a ticket for Central America in my pocket.  The boat sails at ten.  Let’s send him down there.”

“Wha’ for?”

Locke kept his temper with an effort.  “To make a man of him.  We’ll go through his clothes and when he lands he’ll be broke.  He’ll have to work.  Don’t you see?”

“No.”  Anthony’s friend did not see.  “He don’t want to go to Central America,” he argued; “he’s got a new autom’bile.”

“But suppose we got him soused, went through his pockets, and then put him aboard the boat.  He’d be at sea by the time he woke up; he couldn’t get back; he’d have to work; don’t you see?  He’d be broke when he landed and have to rustle money to get back with.  I think it’s an awful funny idea.”

The undeniable humor of such a situation finally dawned upon Higgins’s mind, and he burst into a loud guffaw.

“Hey there!  Shut up!” Anthony called from the piano.  “Listen here!  I’ve found the lost chord.”  He bore down with his huge hands upon the yellow keyboard, bringing forth a metallic crash that blended fearfully with the bartender’s voice.  “It’s a great discovery.”

“I’ll get him full if you’ll help manage him,” Locke went on.  “And here’s the ticket.”  He tapped his pocket.

“Where’d you get it?”

“Bought it yesterday.  It’s first class and better, and he’ll fit my description.  We’re about the same size.”

“Ain’t you goin’?”

“No.  I’ve changed my mind.  I may jump over to Paris.  Come, are you on?”

Higgins giggled.  “Darn’ funny idea, if you can get him full.”

“Wait.”  Locke rose and went to the bar, where he called loudly for the singer; then, when the bartender had deserted the piano, he spoke to Anthony:  “Keep it up, old man, you’re doing fine.”

For some moments he talked earnestly to the man behind the bar; but his back was to Higgins, Anthony was occupied, and Ringold still slumbered; hence no one observed the transfer of another of those yellow bills of which he seemed to have an unlimited store.

Strangely enough, Mr. Jefferson Locke’s plan worked without a hitch.  Within ten minutes after Kirk Anthony had taken the drink handed him he declared himself sleepy, and rose from the piano, only to seek a chair, into which he flung himself heavily.

“It’s all right,” Locke told his drunken companion.  “I’ve got a taxi waiting.  We’ll leave Ringold where he is.”