"Not for mine, friend." The chauffeur laughed scornfully. "I ain't lost no Red November!"
"Will a thousand dollars make you change your mind?"
The chauffeur's eyes narrowed.
"Whatcha drivin' at? Me—why—I'd take a lotta chances for a thousand."
"Help me—do as I say—and it's yours."
"Lead me to the coin," was the prompt decision.
"Here, then!"
P. Sybarite delved hastily into a trousers pocket and produced a handful of bills of large denominations.
"There's a five hundred dollar bill to start with," he rattled, stripping off the first that fell to his fingers—"and here's a hundred—no, here's another five instead."
"In the mitt," the chauffeur stipulated simply, extending his palm. "Either you're crazy or I am—but in the mitt, friend, and I'll run the car right into that garage, 'f you say so."