“This is Monday.”
“Monday! What time?” Again he attempted to rise, swung his feet over the bedside, hung there for a few moments, and again collapsed.
“There, you see. You must lie still,” said Paul.
“Boy! Boy!” Tussock gasped faintly. “What time is it? In God’s name, what time is it?”
“Ten thirty.”
“Bring me my pocket book. Quick! Quick!” With trembling fingers he turned out its contents, bills, soiled papers, newspaper cuttings. “How much money do you make?”
“Six hundred and fifty dollars,” said Paul after he had counted.
“Six hundred and fifty? Oh, curse them! They rolled me for five hundred. Got to find that someway. Who will lend it to me? Forbes might do it, but I don’t know. Must find some way.”
“Here is another pocket book,” said Paul, “which I pulled from the man’s pocket.”
“Let me see!” shouted Tussock. “Jumpin’ Jeroosha! What’s this? Four hundred, five hundred, six hundred! Saved, by the celestial climbing cats! Saved!” He lay back, gasping. “Paul, Paul, listen to me,” he said, grabbing Paul by the hand. “You got to get to the office of Gunning & Strong—get the names, Gunning and Strong—Gunning is the man to ask for—Gunning & Strong, lawyers. Got to pay them before eleven thirty one thousand dollars to hold a big deal. Chance of a lifetime! Chance for a fortune! My third chance, and my last chance! Got to get that to them before eleven thirty. Pay it! Get a receipt! Go! Go! Run like ten thousand devils were huntin’ you. Don’t talk to me!” he cried, pushing Paul off from him.