"I couldn't get it," muttered Fred.
"Now, see here, pal," warned Tip, threateningly, "don't try to pull no roots on me. Ye can get all the money ye want."
"I couldn't this time," Fred contended, stubbornly. "I've got eleven dollars, and that's every bit I could get my hands on."
"But I've got to have twenty," muttered Tip, fiercely. "Now, ye trot back and look through yer Sunday-best suit. You have money enough; yer father's rich, an' he gives ye a lot. Now, ye've no business spendin' any o' that money until ye've paid me what's proper comin' to me. So back to the house with ye, and get the rest o' yer money!"
"It's no use, Tip. I simply can't get another dollar. Here's the eleven, and you'd better be off with it. I can't get any more, either, inside of a fortnight."
"See here," raged young Scammon, "if ye think ye can play——-"
"Take this money and get off," demanded Fred, impatiently. "I'm going back home and to bed."
"I guess, boy, it's about time fer me to see your old man," blustered Tip. "If I hold off until to-morrer afternoon, will ye have the other nine, an' an extry dollar fer me trouble?"
"No," rasped Fred. "It's no use at all—-not for another fortnight, anyway. Good night!"
Turning, Fred sped across the street and back under the shadows at the rear of the lawyer's great house.