Up went Richards’ feet once more, this time to a table. He winked broadly at his friends, and replied with an air of vast carelessness,
“Why––yes; I don’t mind. Guess I can cover you.”
“How much?” demanded Chester. “Odds even, mind.”
“I said I’d cover you, didn’t I?” with some warmth. Richards fumbled in his trousers pockets, extracting therefrom a handful of loose change.
Chester advanced to the table. At sight of his roll of bills a sudden silence fell. All eyes were glued upon them while he counted.
“Five––ten––fifteen”––and so on, up to one hundred. He stowed the remaining five back in his pocket, pushed the pile into the 382 middle of the table and looked coolly down at his host. Said he,
“One hundred, even, that I win the Marathon. Cover, or show these fellows the sort of piker you are.”
And Richards came very near to showing them. His face was a study. He hadn’t ten dollars to his name; he was painfully aware of the fact, and here were these six boys who would know it too in about two seconds. He was rattled, and sat looking at the pile of bills as though charmed. He racked his brain for some way out of the predicament, but the only thing he could think of was to wonder whether the portrait on the top note was that of Hendricks or Rufus Choate. “It can’t be Choate,” suddenly occurred to him. “But then it––”
There was a laugh in the back of the room. Richards stood up. A dozen fire alarms would not have recalled him so quickly. Whatever else might be said of the man he was game, and now his gameness showed.
“Give me an hour; I’ll meet you then in front of the postoffice.” While speaking he had gotten into his coat; now he walked toward 383 the door. “Amuse yourselves while I’m gone, fellows,” he said, and disappeared down the stairway.