You step down off the chair and find his vest and trousers. His watch hefts heavy. You take it, and you take the silver out of his trousers⁠—just to penalize him for trying to be foxy.

You go out, closing the door carefully behind you. Back in your room you examine the bills and silver carefully⁠—you remember the twenty-dollar bill that cost you two years and two lashings. You find you have more money than you would have got out of both the places you failed in; enough to last you six months if you are careful and don’t gamble.

You plant your instruments in the little room down the hall. Then you go out the back way to dodge the night clerk, and down to an all-night saloon where you put the bills away in your compartment in the big safe. The night bartender is square; he knows you and your business. You want to get rid of the watch as quick as possible. It’s worth a hundred dollars. You sell it to him for a twenty-dollar note, glad to be done with it.