“No money,” says he sadly. “Miss Eveline Annabel Wimple, D. T., took it all and pulled out durin’ the play—we think. Anyway, she ain’t here, and the money was given to her in the hotel. The hotel keeper said she was in a big hurry, and she put the money in her handbag. Now, we’re goin’ to raffle the racehorse—if he’s still alive.”
I found Peewee settin’ on the sidewalk, and we went home. He’s so bent out of shape that his saddle don’t fit him, but we got back to the HP ranch and found the horse liniment. After the first or second deluge, I said to him, “Peewee, that Wimple woman got away with the money.”
“Did she? Good for her.”
“You don’t believe in stealin’, do yuh, Peewee?”
“Not stealin’—takin’.”
“If somebody happened to find her handbag and kept the money, would that be stealin’?”
“Finder’s keepers.”
I tosses the handbag on the table, and Peewee goggles at it. He don’t ask no questions. That’s what I like about Peewee. After while he blinks one of his purple eyes, the other one bein’ shut tight, and says, “Thinkin’ it over, Hozie. I’m wonderin’.”
He opens the bag and there’s a envelope, folded in the middle; and we can feel the money inside—paper money. On it is written: Funds of The Curse of Drink. It’s Judgment Jones’s writin’. Peewee shakes his head.