"It'd be a shame to rob you, George," said P. Sybarite. "Besides, you're bad-tempered when broke."
"Never you mind about that. Here's my eight, if you've got five that makes a noise like Molly Lessing."
P. Sybarite laughed softly and produced the little wad of bills that represented his weekly wage. At this, George involuntarily drew back.
"And how would you settle the bet?"
"Leave it to her," insisted George in an expiring gasp of bravado.
"You'd ask her yourself?"
"Ye-es—"
"And let it stand on her answer?"
"Wel-l—"
"Here she comes now," added P. Sybarite, glancing up the street. "Quick, now; you've only a minute to decide. Is it a bet?"