“Sure. There it is.” The man drew a crumpled bill from his pocket and put it beside Johnny’s purse. It was a hundred dollar bill.
“So that’s a leaf?” Johnny grinned. “I’m not much used to city talk.”
“I’ll leave it right here,” the man whined. “Now can I go?”
“No, you can’t. Not for ten grand!” Johnny said. “And there’s some of your crime slang right back at you. Put up your filthy old leaf. They grow better ones on cottonwood trees out in the sticks. Here come the rest of them.”
It was true. His host of the night before was returning down the alley. So, too, was a slimmer young man with a freckled Irish face. Between them, looking very much exhausted and quite disgusted with life, was Johnny’s other street car companion.
“Well, well!” said Johnny’s host, Drew Lane, eyeing the purse on the cobblestones. “Exhibit A. Right before my eyes!
“That yours?” he asked, turning to Johnny.
“Sure it is.”
“And these birds took it?”
“Sure did.”