“Oh—I see. Got any of them with you?”
“Just one. Be careful of it,” he says, and hands it to me. I holds it up to the light. ’Twas a common old iron dollar.
“Broke?”
He straightened up indignantly. “Not on your life—that’s no counterfeit!” he says.
I liked him. I felt friendly. My experience is that the difference between the friend that can help you but won’t and the enemy that would hurt you but can’t isn’t worth notice. So I dug. When I gave his dollar back I slid five yellow twenties with it.
He looks ’em over carefully, feeling of them, edges and both sides, with his finger-tips. “Very interesting,” he says. “Very beautiful. How clear the lettering is!” And he hands ’em back.
“They’re yours, Stranger,” says I. “For your collection.”
He swells up. “Not much. I’d beg before I’d accept charity.”
“You don’t understand me,” I says, sparring for time. “I meant as a sporting venture. I’m superstitious. Men with a wad always lose it. So why shouldn’t a broke man win? Take it and win us a home.”
“Oh, that’s different,” says Stranger. “I accept with pleasure—the more so as I have an infallible system of winning at roulette, founded on long observation.”