“Tails,” proclaimed the arbiter, as the silver shivered into silence on the flagging.
“Then the house is yours,” said the butterfly. “Good luck go with it.” She smiled, gamely covering her disappointment.
“I don’t want it,” returned the young man.
“Play fair,” she exhorted him. “We both agreed solemnly to stand by the toss. Didn’t we?”
“What did we agree?”
“That the winner should have the choice.”
“Very well. I won, didn’t I?”
“You certainly did.”
“And I choose not to take the house,” he declared triumphantly. “It’s a very nice house, but”—he shaded his eyes as he directed them upon the proud-pied façade, blinking significantly—“I’d have to wear smoked glasses if I lived in it, and they don’t suit my style of beauty.”
“You’d not get it now, young feller, if you was to go down on your knees with a thousand dollars in each hand,” asserted the offended Estate.