“The devil of it—” Turrill stopped. “The—”
“I dare say it is the devil of it,” said David. “Go on.”
“Well, then, the devil of it is, I'm strapped!” said Turrill. “If I wasn't—” He waved his hand to show how simple it would be. “He came yesterday, telling me the story. I'm a sick man; I close my place at one every morning; I can't stand any more than that; but last night I let them stay until daylight, and, curse it! I had no luck! I took the limit off and tried to win what Marty needs, and they cleaned me out and took my I. O. U.'s. So I came to you. It was all I could think of.”
He paused a moment while he rubbed his hip. “It wasn't his own money Marty lost,” he said then. “He's taken two thousand dollars of the city money, and I won it.” He stretched out his leg and fumbled in his trousers pocket and brought out a roll of money. “There!” he said; “there is five hundred dollars. I went around today and raised that among the men who come to my room. I can't raise another cent. That's all I can do; what can you do?”
Now David arose and walked the narrow space before Turrill.
“I suppose his bondsmen will make good! He has bondsmen, hasn't he? I don't know much about such things.”
“They'll have to make good what he is short,” said Turrill. “Seth Hardcome will have to make it all good. Tony Porter is on the bond, but he hasn't a cent. If he had a cent he wouldn't have gone on the bond—that's the kind he is. Hardcome is the man that'll have to make good. But he'll see Mart Ware in the penitentiary first.”
“Why!”
Turrill made a gesture with his hand.
“How do I know! Mart says so; Mart went to him. He told Hardcome the whole thing and asked him to see him through—said he would work his hands to the bone to pay it back. Hardcome won't do anything and Porter can't and Marty will kill himself before he goes to the pen. Hardcome is one of your deacons, or whatever you call them, isn't he!”