Young laughed softly. “And why should I hand seventy-five dollars over to you, Faulkner? What do you think I am, a national bank?”
“If you want an itemized account,” responded Joe patiently, “I can oblige you. But your train will be leaving in about twelve minutes, you know. Roughly, the cigars and things you turned back to the dealers amounted to forty-seven dollars——”
Young’s expression changed enough to show that he had not expected Joe to have knowledge of that transaction.
“And you got about thirty out of the cash register yesterday and today. That foots up to seventy-seven, and——”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” interrupted Young angrily, but without raising his voice. “Someone’s been stalling you. You’d better go back to Amesville and soak your head, sport. You’re too innocent to be so far from home.”
“Ten minutes to train time now,” said Joe. “Come across, Young. You’re beaten, and you know it.”
“Why, you silly chump, you can’t hold me up for money like this! I haven’t got that much, anyway, and if I had I wouldn’t be likely to pass it over to you. You must be crazy! You ought to get a job in a squirrel cage!”
“If you haven’t seventy-five it’s going to be awkward,” said Joe reflectively. “I thought that probably you’d hand it over and there wouldn’t have to be any trouble about it. I hate to get my name in the papers, but if I have to all right.”
“Quit your joking,” growled Young. “For two cents I’d knock your head off. There’s my train and I can’t stop here chewing the rag any longer.” He got up, bag in hand and grinned mockingly down at the other. “Give my love to Strobe when you get back, sport. So long.”