"Don't say it that way, Digby," she protested, so faintly that his heart smote him and he changed the subject with almost ridiculous haste.
"Hadn't we better go to another grocery and buy our Christmas dinner," he suggested.
"No, indeed!" she exclaimed. "With what could we buy it!"
"With my—your ten, I mean."
"Digby Trotter, we may carry on our nefarious robberies as individuals, but I don't intend to form a partnership in the business. I don't approve of doing it collectively."
"But what will we do with the money? Burn it?"
"I thought you wanted to give it back to its owner."
"But he won't miss it—not just yet, anyhow," he expostulated.
"Neither shall you; you are never to see it again," she said, firmly, clasping the little purse defiantly.
"Well, I guess you're right. We'll do without our turkey dinner. It's pretty rough, though, when we are nearer being millionaires than we have been in months," he said, regretfully.