It was Betty’s photograph, and a perfectly charming little picture she made too. But Jim had intentionally passed it over, for he was not through with Sol Hanson. He had still his pound of flesh to exact.
“Ain’t that dam-fine girl?” Sol went on. “See that, Phil! I been going to marry her. You bet! Tra-la-la!” 199 he half sang. “Come on!––let’s go and find her, Jim. Come on!”
“Wait a bit!––Bide a wee!” returned canny Scot Langford. “That isn’t the picture of the woman who is here for you.”
Sol’s face fell.
“What? But you say her name’s Betty Jornsen?”
“Yes! That is what she told me.”
“Well!––that’s Betty;––that’s her.”
“Oh, no it isn’t! Don’t you fool yourself, mister man. You’re mixed up in your women, Sol.”
“No siree! You look on back,” Sol returned triumphantly. “See that! ‘With love and kisses to Sol from Betty Jornsen.’”
Jim stood for a moment in silence.