He came to a sudden halt.
"What is it?" asked Joe, wonderingly.
"I—er—I—er—well, never mind, now. Can you let me have—say, two hundred dollars?"
"Two hundred dollars!" cried Joe. "I haven't that much money to spare. And, if I had, I don't know that I would be doing my duty to my father and mother to lend it."
"But I need it!" cried Shalleg. "Did you ever know what it was to be down and out?"
"Well, I've seen such sad cases, and I'm sorry for you," spoke Joe, softly. He thought of John Dutton, the broken-down pitcher whose rescue, from a life of ruin, had been due largely to our hero's efforts, as told in the volume immediately preceding this.
"Being sorry isn't going to help," sneered Shalleg, and there was an ugly note in his voice. "I need money! You must have some left from your pennant winnings."
"I had to spend a large sum for my father's operation," said Joe. "He has had bad luck, too. I really have no money to spare."
"That's not so—I don't believe you!" snapped Shalleg. "You must have money, and I've got to get some. I've been begging from a lot of fellows who played ball with me, but they all turned me down. Now you're doing the same thing. You'd better be careful. I'm a desperate man!"
"What do you mean?" asked Joe, in some alarm, for he thought the fellow meditated an attack. Joe looked to see with what he could defend himself, and he noted, though with no cowardly satisfaction, that the door to the hall was close at hand.