"Hello, Pinny," answered Charles-Norton, even before looking. He had recognized the voice of the pale youth whom he had elbowed on the L a few weeks before, and whom later he had placated here in the bakery.
"S'pose you're a millionaire by this time, chicken," said the youth, jocularly.
"Sure, Pinny," answered Charles-Norton.
"But really, honest, did yuh win anything?" went on Pinny, more seriously.
"Win?" Suddenly Charles-Norton remembered the lottery ticket that he had bought. He had forgotten it completely. "The drawings was three days ago," Pinny was saying; "got 'em here," and out of his pocket he drew a soiled newspaper clipping.
Charles-Norton also was searching his pockets with much contortion; and it was some time before his hand flashed out triumphantly with a piece of dog-eared, yellow cardboard. "Wot's your number?" asked Pinny.
"Nineteen thousand, eight hundred and ninety-seven," Charles-Norton read.
Pinny was perusing the clipping in his hand. "Wot did you say," he piped suddenly; "wot's the number?"
"Nineteen thousand, eight hundred and ninety-seven," repeated Charles-Norton.