“I want to see my friend Bill Riley,” he said. “I know he hangs out here. I’ll give you a quarter if you’ll find Bill for me.”
“G’wan! yer can’t fool me!” said the boy. “I dunno no Bill Riley, an’ I don’t believe you’d fork over a quarter, annyhow.”
Snodgrass took out the money, and held it up before the eyes of the dirty, squirming lad. The squirming ceased, and the boy eyed the piece of silver greedily.
“There it is,” said the college youth. “Now, show me Bill Riley, and it’s yours.”
The boy seemed to be contemplating making a grab for the money.
“I dunno Bill Riley,” he persisted. “What’s he do?”
“He’s a gent,” declared Snodgrass, with assumed loftiness. “He don’t do a thing. He lives on the interest of his money. I met him last summer in jail.”
“Hey?” said the boy. “Where was dat?”
“Blackwell’s Island. Ever heard of it?”
“Sure, Mike! I know a feller that’s been there, and the gang calls him Bill.”