“Well—he owns it, yes. Mostly its Jenks, his manager, and the waiters that let the crowd do things outside the actual license rights of the roadhouse. Well, anyhow, I got to spending money pretty fast and I gambled. After awhile I lost so much I found out I was owing the ‘house’ as they say, more than two hundred dollars!”
Although several maxims and Biblical quotations sprang into Bob’s mind, he kept silent. This was no time for preaching, for pretending the “holier than thou” pose. Under the same temptations, argued Bob to himself, it would be hard to say whether he’d go Griff’s way or not. It isn’t how good a fellow thinks he is, but how good he proves himself to be under temptation, that counts, Bob decided.
“That’s what you’re taking the money for—or trying to,” Curt determined. “But why did you have to take it this way, and at this time?”
“The manager at the roadhouse said, last week, he’d have to get all the debts owed the house and clean up, because they’re spending a lot on a new dance place, like a——”
“Hangar. We know. Never mind why they wanted it. Tell me,” Bob changed the subject for a moment, “what does the owner look like? Is he short, thick-set——”
“That’s the manager——”
“But that man let on to be Jones.” Al broke in.
“Maybe he did? What were you doing there—snooping?”
“Never mind,” said Curt, pacifically, wishing to get Griff’s side of the matter first. “We wanted a specimen of his handwriting——”
“I wish I could get one!” declared Griff, ruefully. “That’s the whole trouble, fellows.” His manner was more eager, more confidential. “I paid the money once—and he didn’t give me a receipt——”