His momentary consternation afforded Pete the opening he needed. The room shook with his regained sense of prestige.
"Yes, three hundred 'n' eighty dollars 'n'—say, you look a-here!——"
Again the calm forefinger touched him, and like a hypnotist's pass checked the rolling volume of noise. "Listen," begged Duncan: "if you've got anything else to tell me, please retire to the opposite side of the street and whisper it. Meanwhile, be quiet!"
Pete's jaw dropped. In all his experience no one had ever succeeded in taming him so completely—and in so brief a time. He experienced a sensation of having been robbed of his spinal column, and before he could pull himself together was staring in awe, while with one final admonitory poke of his finger Duncan turned and made for the soda counter, beneath which was the till. His scanty roll of bills was in his right hand, and there concealed. He stepped behind the counter (old Sam watching him with an amazement no less absolute than Pete's), pulled out the till, bent over it with an assured air, and pushed back the coin slide. Then quite naturally, he produced—with his right hand—his four-hundred-and-odd dollars from the bill drawer, stood up and counted them with great deliberation.
"One ... two ... three ... four." He smiled winningly at Pete. "Four hundred dollars, Mr. Sheriff. Now will you be good enough to hand over that note and the change and then put yourself, and that pickle you're wearing in your face, on the other side of the door?"
Pete struggled tremendously and finally succeeded in producing from his system a still, small voice:
"I ain't got the note with me, Mr. Duncan."
"Then perhaps you won't mind going to the bank for it?"
Half suffocated, Pete assented. "Aw'right, I'll go and git it. Kin I have the money?"
"Certainly." Duncan extended the bills, then on second thought withheld them. "I presume you're a regular sheriff?" he inquired.