“You said you’d never use them that way,” said Foote. “You told me that signing the papers was only a matter of form.”
“That’s when I thought you were square and meant to pay if you lost,” said the gambler mercilessly. “I’ve given you plenty of time. There aren’t many would have treated you as well. You’d better get ready to pay up, for I shan’t change my mind. You’re a piker—a bum sport. I hate your kind.”
“Here, go easy on the kid, Bunny,” said a new voice, that of a man, who, sitting in a darkened part of the room, had not been noticed before by Foote. “I like his looks. He looks as if he had plenty of nerve. Why not give him a chance?”
Marsten spun around and faced the speaker.
“Go ahead,” he said. “If you think so well of him, talk to him. If you want to guarantee his notes, I’ll hold off a while longer.”
“This is Mr. Barrows,” Marsten said then to Foote, by way of introduction. “You’re in luck if he’s taken a shine to you. He can pull you out, if any one can. You’d better see what he wants.”
Foote was too relieved at the sign of a chance for escape to think of how obviously prearranged the whole scene was.
“Are you game to go in with me on a big deal, kid?” asked Barrows. “If you help me to pull it off, I’ll pay up your notes here and give you five hundred beside. How does that strike you?”
“I’ll do anything,” said Foote. “I can’t let my father hear of this. He’d turn me off without a cent. I know he would. He’s down on me already, and this would be the last straw. I’m game for anything you want me to do.”