“Who has, then?”
“His backer.”
“What's that?”
“Oh, I found it all out—I know how it's done. Sam's got a backer—a man that puts up the money. Sam only sells for his backer. When there's a hit, the backer pays.”
“Who's Sam's backer, as you call him?”
“Couldn't get him to tell; tried him hard, but he was close as an oyster. Drives in the Park and wears a two thousand dollar diamond pin; he let that out. So he's good for the hits. Sam always puts the money down, fair and square.”
“Very well; you get the policy, and do it right off, Pinky, or the money'll slip through your fingers.”
“All right,” answered Pinky as she folded the slip of paper containing the lucky rows. “Never you fear. I'll be at Sam McFaddon's in ten minutes after I leave here.”
“And be sure,” said Mrs. Bray, “to look after the baby to-night, and see that it doesn't perish with cold; the air's getting sharp.”
“It ought to have something warmer than cotton rags on its poor little body,” returned Pinky. “Can't you get it some flannel? It will die if you don't.”