Laura Brayton — page 78: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

LAURA BRAYTON, 69 fingers, with sharp, talon-like nails, as if he would like to do such a deed. “Why wouldn’t it pay?” asked Sharp, nervously. “*Cause dead'chickens can’t lay eggs. You’ll pay me for work that I’m used to. As long as you pay well, ’d be a fool to put you where you couldn’t do it.” “You’re a philosopher, Lobster Joe.” | “No, ’m not. V’mathief and a murderer! But you can’t prove it, boss. They can’t hang a man on his own confession, if he asks a trial and they’ve no witnesses against him. But go ahead and tell me what you want withme. I’m hungry and I’m dry; I’m out of chink, and I don’t feel like stealin’ to-night. I’ve passed three policemen who were | awake to-night, and that is so uncommon that I’m afraid I’d be in bad luck if I axed some man fora loan of what he had about him.” “You shall have both food and drink. Stay here, and I will go and get it.” - And the lawyer limped out of the room. The moment he was gone Joe looked around the room to see if there was anvthing valuable which he could appropriate. The search did not reward him with any visible wealth in prospective. Glanc- ing at the two large iron safes, he took a chunk of wax from his pocket and took impressions of the keyholes, and looked particularly at the numbers of the safes and name of the maker. “Tf he doesn’t shell out easy, Pll shell for him,” muttered Joe, taking a seat and waiting for the re- turn of the lawyer. The latter came back in a few minutes with a platter of bread and meat and a bottle of brandy, with a glass to drink from, : ‘ ecomicbooks €o