Yes, Ju was undoubtedly experiencing a certain mild satisfaction. But
somehow his ointment was not without taint. He detected a fly in it.
And he hated flies--even in ointment.
To understand Ju's feelings clearly one must appreciate the fact that
he loved dollars better than anything else in the world. And something
he hated with equal fervor was to see their flow diverted into any
other channel than that of his own pocket. Ten thousand of these
delectable pieces of highly engraved treasure had definitely flowed
into some pocket unknown, as a result of the Lightfoot gang episode.
The whole transaction he felt was wicked, absolutely wicked. What
right had any ten thousand dollars to drift into any unknown pocket?
Known, yes. That was legitimate. It always left an enterprising
individual the sporting chance of dipping a hand into it. But the
other was an outrage against commercialism. Why, if that sort of thing
became the general practice, "how," he asked himself, "was an honest
trader to live?"
The enquiry was the result of extreme nervous irritation, and he
scratched at the roots of his beard in a genuine physical trouble of
that nature.
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