Drawn by Fletcher C. Ransom
Half-tone plate engraved by H. C. Merritt
“‘THIRTY-SEVEN DOLLARS, PLEASE’”
⇒
LARGER IMAGE
“One—two—three—four—five—” She measured swiftly, counting aloud as she went that they might be sure she was making no mistake. Under cover of her voice Hank hissed in Roddy’s ear:
“It’s yer turn to play. Say something, can’t yer? An’ git us outa this here hold-up.”
“Hold-up! I should say yes!” snorted Beany in Roddy’s other ear, suddenly appreciating the real essence of the joke; and then snorted again as he heard “Seventeen—eighteen—nineteen,” accompanied by the rapid swish of silk along the counter.
But all Roddy, now very red of face, could contribute toward a graceful retreat for himself and friends from the scene of disaster was, “We don’t want it,” while pushing the ribbons weakly in her direction.
Before he could think of anything else, she raised her unsuspicious eyes questioningly to his, acknowledging him the leader and his word her law. That was the glance that shot him through the heart—that, and the way she’d beaten them at their own game and never turned a hair. Roddy was enough the man and the sport to appreciate the laugh on himself.
“Fellas, the drinks are on us,” he informed them, grimly. “The little girl gits the jackpot. It’s up to us to shell out an’ be P. D. Q. about it, too.”