“That’s right,” nodded Harry.
With a clang he landed it on the table. He beckoned to Tom and Ben to approach.
“I made that belt myself,” he went on, with some pride in his tone. “Looks like a sectional rattlesnake, eh? It’s made out of snakeskin. See, it’s got pockets. This one,” and Harry unsnapped a button—“pennies.”
A dozen cent pieces rolled out. He gave them a peep into five other similar pockets.
“Nickels, dimes, quarters, half dollars,” recited Harry. “Then this one at the end—ten, twenty, forty, sixty, eighty, one hundred. There’s your money, Tom. I’ll take your note when it’s convenient.”
From a last compartment in the belt the speaker had produced a goodly roll of banknotes. He counted off the bills with the flippancy and skill of a bank cashier. Tom sat staring at the little heap that meant his business salvation, fairly agape.
“The mischief!” giggled the petrified Ben. “It’s real money!”
“Yes, and hard earned, and mine,” said Harry.
“But how, where——”
“Did I get it?” smiled Harry. “Work, hard work, fellows,” and there was a mingled pride and fondness in Harry’s voice. “That little heap means over a year of hard knocks and close scrapings, before I had the typhoid fever.”