"Sixty dollars," said the little girl, reluctantly.
Hank relapsed into silence after this information. He was evidently not inclined to talk, but 'Tilda Jane was brimful of questions, and presently burst out with one of them.
"Mr. Hank, what did you do with that beauty horse of yours?"
"Had to sell it," he said, bitterly. "I've lost everything I had. Those farmers are all against me. Every potato top among them. I'm played out in this State. They'd like to jail me if they could."
"Jail you," said 'Tilda Jane, resentfully, "I guess I'd come and pound at the door of the jail if they did."
"You ought to pound," said Hank, in an ungrateful and ungallant tone, "'cause I ain't had a mite of luck since you crossed my path."
'Tilda Jane fell into blank astonishment for the space of one minute, then she asked, wistfully, "Do you mean that—did I truly bring you bad luck?"
"You truly did," he said, peevishly. "I'm all broken up in my business, cleaned out, done for."
'Tilda Jane pushed the hair back from her forehead with a bewildered gesture. Her benefactor was in trouble—perhaps ruined, and through her. But this was no time for reflection, the urgency of the case demanded action.
"Mr. Hank," she said, softly, "warn't it a roguey kind of a business, anyway?"