“And where do you get the ‘us’ stuff?” inquired Bill.
“If you two boys think you’re going to run this show without Deb and me, you’ve got another think coming. Isn’t that so, Deb?”
“It certainly is. We both saw the men and talked to them. Where would you get a description of them if not from us?”
“Now look here,” Osceola waved a chicken bone at her, “let’s call it a foursome, and can all the argument. What’s more, Dorothy’s idea about the car being stolen, is, ten-to-one the right dope. That was a big bus and this year’s model. Those things cost a heap of money.”
“That’s the way I figured it,” answered Dorothy. “And let me tell you that no two men who made such a fuss about losing a dollar would cough up four thousand of them for a car like that!”
Bill stared at Osceola meaningly. “What did you say—that one of them lost a dollar?”
“Yes—and a silver dollar at that—one of those cartwheels they use out West instead of bills.”
“GOOD NIGHT!” exploded Bill. Osceola stared at him in dumb amazement.
“Yes,” she went on, “but why the great excitement? The dollar that man lost—he was a Russian or something, by the way he talked—well, that dollar started the mixup. But you two look as though you’d seen a flock of ghosts—what?”
“Just one,” said Osceola, and his tone was deadly serious. “But never mind that now. Get on with your own story, then we’ll tell ours.”