Pritchard. Well, you want ter know our business. Call upon a business man in business hours. Our little game is this, Mr. Jack Morton Alexander Oakhurst. When we was here the other night, we was wantin' a key to that theer lock (pointing to vault), and we sorter dropped in passin' to get it. Oakhurst. And suppose I refuse to give it up? Pritchard. We were kalkilatin' on yer bein' even that impolite: wasn't we, boys? Silky and Soapy. We was that. Pritchard. And so we got Mr. Jackson to take an impression of it in wax. Oh, he's a squar man--is Mr. Jackson! Silky. Jackson is a white man, Soapy! Soapy. They don't make no better men nor Jackson, Silky. Pritchard. And we've got a duplicate key here. But we don't want any differences, pard: we only want a squar game. It seemed to us--some of your old pards as knew ye, Jack--that ye had a rather soft thing here, reformin'; and we thought ye was kinder throwin' off on the boys, not givin' 'em any hand in the game. But thar ain't anythin' mean about us. Eh, boys? Soapy. We is allers ready to chip in ekal in the game. Eh, Silky? Silky. That's me, Soapy. Pritchard. Ye see, the boys is free and open-handed, Jack. And so the proposition we wanter make to ye, Jack, is this. It's reg'lar on the squar. We reckon, takin' Mr. Jackson's word,--and thar ain't no man's word ez is better nor Jackson's,--that there's nigh on to two millions in that vault, not to speak of a little speshil deposit o' York's, ez we learn from that accommodatin' friend, Mr. Jackson. We propose to share it with ye, on ekil terms--us five--countin' Jackson, a square man. In course, we takes the risk o' packin' it away to-night comfortable. Ez your friends, Jack, we allow this yer little arrangement to be a deuced sight easier for you than playin' Sandy Morton on a riglar salary, with the chance o' the real Sandy poppin' in upon ye any night. Oakkurst. It's a lie. Sandy is dead. Pritchard. In course, in course; that is your little game! But we kalkilated, Jack, even on that, on yer bein' rambunktious and contrary; and so we went ter Red Gulch, and found Sandy. Ye know I take a kind o' interest in Sandy: he's the second husband of my wife, the woman you run away with, pard. But thar's nothin' mean about me! eh, boys? Silky. No! he's the forgivingest kind of a man, is Pritchard. Soapy. That's so, Silky. Pritchard. And, thinkin' ye might be dubious, we filled Sandy about full o' rye whiskey, and brought him along; and one of our pards is preambulatin' the streets with him, ready to bring him on call. Oakhurst. It's a lie, Pritchard,--a cowardly lie! Pritchard. Is it? Hush! Sandy (without, singing),-- Oh, yer's yer Sandy Morton, Drink him down! Oh, yer's yer Sandy Morton, Drink him down! Oh, yer's yer Sandy Morton, All alive and just a-snortin'! Oh, yer's yer Sandy Morton, Drink him down!