“Billy pinched; what for?” The jubilation in her black eyes turned to terror.
“For swiping a bloke’s leather. They got it on him; hurry up.”
The boy stared wide-eyed at them for a moment, then pushing his chair back he arose unsteadily to his feet.
“Seventy-five cents for the drinks.”
It was the waiter’s voice.
He fumbled in his pocket, brought forth a handful of change, deposited it in the outstretched palm, and began to weave his way among the tables toward the door in the wake of the hurrying women.
“He’s a swell kid, all right,” remarked the waiter, as he counted the $3.25 in change, “and I hope he comes back.”
