"Lucky dog!"
"One hundred and twenty-five," said Skippy, going through the proper motions. "Twenty once, twice, three times, four and five. One hundred, and ten and twenty and twenty—"
But at this moment, whether by chance, by intent or by the emotion caused by the display of such wealth, there was a crash from the nearby table and two magazines fell to the floor. Snorky, ever alert, sprang to his feet, retrieved the magazines and offered them to the blondest of the two with punctilious courtesy.
"Allow me. I believe these belong to you?"
"Oh thank you," said the young lady, looking quite distressed.
"Awfully warm night, isn't it?" said Snorky, whose heart was pumping at his own unexampled audacity.
"Sir, I do not think I have been introduced to you," said the young lady, stiffening and looking what to Snorky, at least, were daggers.
He uttered several unintelligible sounds, flushed a fiery red and backed away.
"Right where the chicken met the axe," said Skippy, who began to whistle a melancholy tune as he gathered up the scattered greenbacks. "Here comes mother."
"Let's beat it," said Snorky, who felt a sudden need for a purer atmosphere.