But there was a sort of foster parenthood to which he owed a
clean-minded allegiance--the fiction of the Colby blood. He had
worshipped that thought for twenty years. He could not discard it in an
instant.
Denver was breezing on in his quick, husky voice, so carefully toned that
it barely served to reach Terry.
"I been waiting for a pal like you, kid. And here's where we hit it off.
You don't know much about the game, I guess? Neither did Black Jack. As a
peterman he was a loud ha-ha; as a damper-getter he was just an amateur;
as a heel or a houseman, well, them things were just outside him. When it
come to the gorilla stuff, he was there a million, though. And when there
was a call for fast, quick, soft work, Black Jack was the man. Kid, I can
see that you're cut right on his pattern. And here's where you come in
with me. Right off the bat there's going to be velvet. Later on I'll
educate you. In three months you'll be worth your salt. Are you on?"
He hardly waited for Terry to reply. He rambled on.
"I got a plant that can't fail to blossom into the long green, kid. The
store safe.
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