“I know well enough. She often puts money on the window, and it fell down. Give me that, I tell you!” Hughie's eyes were blazing dangerously, and Foxy handed back the half-dollar.
“O, all right. You're a pretty big fool,” he said, indifferently. “'Losers seekers, finders keepers.' That's my rule.”
Hughie was silent, holding his precious half-dollar in his hand, deep in his pocket.
“Say,” said Foxy, changing the subject, “I guess you had better pay up for your powder and caps you've been firing.”
“I haven't been firing much,” said Hughie, confidently.
“Well, you've been firing pretty steady for three weeks.”
“Three weeks! It isn't three weeks.”
“It is. There's this week, and last week when the ink-bottle bust too soon and burnt Fusie's eyebrows, and the week before when you shot Aleck Dan, and it was the week before that you began, and that'll make it four.”
“How much?” asked Hughie, desperately, resolved to know the worst.
Foxy had been preparing for this. He took down a slate-pencil box with a sliding lid, and drew out a bundle of crumbled slips which Hughie, with sinking heart, recognized as his own vouchers.