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 I says I would think it over, and that's what I did, with the results that a couple of days afterward I called upon the charmin' Dolores with a mysterious-lookin' and bulgin' little black satchel in my hand, like the kind usually wore by bank messengers. I laid it on the table in front of her without a word and, hearin' footsteps approachin' the room, Dolores shoves the bag into a little wall safe, swiftly spins the combination, and writes me a receipt for $150,000. That windin' up the business of the meetin', I took the air.

At the risk of losin' my lady readers, I have got to say that they was nothin' in that satchel I give Dolores but newspapers. I had figured the thing about like this—if I failed to bet the $150,000 and the Kid did stop Enright in six rounds, he would look to me to hand him back his winnin's at three to one or better. Then would come the heavy crash! And whilst he'd prob'ly forgive Dolores, he would never under no circumstances forgive me. On the other hand, if I bet it and he lost, we'd still be friends because I'd only be carryin' out his orders. On top of all this, they was always the chance that Kid Roberts would stop Enright in a round and by not bettin' his dough for him I'd be gippin' out of a fortune the whitest guy which ever lived.

To absolutely refuse to give Dolores the jack might bring her to the camp to upset the Kid on the eve of the fight, so I played safe and took the hundred and fifty thousand fish down to Wall Street—the best place to handle a bet of that size on anything.