had hunted up a fraudulent insurance policy that had come into the office files in connection with a swindle long since prosecuted; and he altered the policy to insure Cooney for five thousand dollars, and he wrote his own name and office address on it as agent of the company.
“Now, young man,” he said, “there ’s a perfectly good forgery that ’ll land me in trouble if Cooney tries to borrow on it. You be careful who sees that document, and get it back to me as soon as they ’ve swallowed it.”
“Leave it to me,” Barney gloated. “It ’s a pippin. It ’ll make th’ ol’ geezer feel he ’s goin’ to die rich.”
He got an interview with Cooney after supper that evening, in a beer-sour room off Dolan’s bar; and he explained the plant to the bewildered old man over and over, till Cooney’s face was bright with understanding. “Saints in Hiven,” he kept muttering to himself, at admiring intervals. “The little divel! Look at that, wud ye! Don’t that beat the
