The other stared at him hard. “Lemme see it,” he said.
“Will you change it?” Jurgis demanded, gripping it tightly in his pocket.
“How the hell can I know if it’s good or not?” retorted the bartender. “Whatcher take me for, hey?”
Then Jurgis slowly and warily approached him; he took out the bill, and fumbled it for a moment, while the man stared at him with hostile eyes across the counter. Then finally he handed it over.
The other took it, and began to examine it; he smoothed it between his fingers, and held it up to the light; he turned it over, and upside down, and edgeways. It was new and rather stiff, and that made him dubious. Jurgis was watching him like a cat all the time.
“Humph,” he said, finally, and gazed at the stranger, sizing him up—a ragged, ill-smelling tramp, with no overcoat and one arm in a sling—and a hundred-dollar bill! “Want to buy anything?” he demanded.
“Yes,” said Jurgis, “I’ll take a glass of beer.”
“All right,” said the other, “I’ll change it.” And he put the bill in his pocket, and poured Jurgis out a glass of beer, and set it on the counter. Then he turned to the cash register, and punched up five cents, and began to pull money out of the drawer. Finally, he faced Jurgis, counting it out—two dimes, a quarter, and fifty cents. “There,” he said.
For a second Jurgis waited, expecting to see him turn again. “My ninety-nine dollars,” he said.
“What ninety-nine dollars?” demanded the bartender.