"Nary," returned Whitey Wimble without troubling himself to look into his till. "We don't see overmuch rag money in Red Creek."
"Guess that's so," admitted Steve. "They do come in handy, though, sometimes; when you want to send a dollar in a letter or something of that kind."
"That's a fac', too; never thought of that." Which, since he never wrote or received letters, was no doubt true.
"Men around here don't have much use for paper money, do they?" continued Packard carelessly, his interest seeming to centre in his cigarette smoke. "I'd bet a man the drinks nobody else has asked you for a dollar bill for the last six months."
"You'd lose," said Whitey. "I had three of 'em in the drawer for a coon's age; feller asked me for 'em jus' the other night."
"Yes?" He masked his eagerness as he thrust a quarter forward. "The drink's on me then. Let me have a cigar."
Whitey also took a cigar, indicating friendliwise the better box.
"Who was it asked you for the paper money?" Steve went on. "He might have one he doesn't need."
"It was Stumpy Collins. The bootblack across the street."
"I'll look him up; yesterday he had them, you say?"