The sight of the bills and coin brought doubt to the sceptic. “Say,” he demanded, his eyes burning with avidity, “does youse mean dat? Dere oin’t no crawl in dis?”
“No. How much were they worth?”
The boy hesitated, and scanned her face, as if he were measuring the girl more than he was his loss. “Dere wuz twinty Joinals” he said, speaking slowly, and his eyes watching her as a cat might a mouse, “an’—an’—twinty Woilds—an’—an’ tirty Telegrams— an’—an’—” He drew a fresh breath, as if needing strength, shot an apprehensive glance at the roundsman, and went on hurriedly, in a lower voice, “an’ tirty-five Posts—”
“Ah, g’long with you,” broke in the policeman, disgustedly. “He didn’t have mor’n twenty in all, that I know.”
“Hope I may die if Ise didn’t have all dem papes, boss,” protested the boy.
“You deserve to be run in, that’s what you do,” asserted the officer of the law, angrily.
“Oh, don’t threaten him,” begged Miss Durant.
“Don’t you be fooled by him, mum. He ain’t the kind as sells Posts, an’ if he was, he wouldn’t have more’n five.”
“It’s de gospel trute Ise chuckin’ at youse dis time,” asserted the youngster.
“Gospel Ananias—!” began the officer.