“I say, Guffey,” said he, “will you let me look at that half dollar that was used for the toss?”
The Gold Hill coach turned his deathlike face toward Frank, and peered at him with suspicion in his faded blue eyes.
“You think it’s a fake coin, eh?” he demanded; “one of the heads-I-win-tails-you-lose sort, eh?”
There was a snarl, venomous as it was uncalled for, back of the words.
“I don’t think anything of the sort,” Frank answered sharply. “I just want to look at it, that’s all.”
“There you are.”
Guffey thrust his hand into his pocket, jerked out a coin, and flung it down in front of Frank. The latter picked it up.
It was not a plugged coin, nor was it minted in the year of Merry’s birth. Guffey had substituted another piece for the one in question.
“This isn’t the half they used for the toss, Guffey,” said Frank.
“I’m a liar, am I?” demanded Guffey hotly. “What are you trying to do, Merriwell? Kick up a row?”