"All right," said Mifflin. "How many of us are there? One, two, three, four—Loser buys a dinner for twelve."     

       "A good dinner," interpolated Raikes, softly.     

       "A good dinner," said Jimmy. "Very well. How long do you give me, Arthur?"     

       "How long do you want?"     

       "There ought to be a time-limit," said Raikes. "It seems to me that a flyer like Jimmy ought to be able to manage it at short notice. Why not tonight? Nice, fine night. If Jimmy doesn't crack a crib tonight, it's up to him. That suit you, Jimmy?"     

       "Perfectly."     

       Willett interposed. Willett had been endeavoring to drown his sorrows all the evening, and the fact was a little noticeable in his speech.     

       "See here," he said, "how's J-Jimmy going to prove he's done it?"     

       "Personally, I can take his word," said Mifflin.     

       "That be h-hanged for a tale. Wha-what's to prevent him saying he's done it, whether he has or not?"     

       The Strollers looked uncomfortable. Nevertheless, it was Jimmy's affair.     

       "Why, you'd get your dinner in any case," said Jimmy. "A dinner from any host would smell as sweet."     

       Willett persisted with muddled obstinacy.     

       "Thash—thash not point. It's principle of thing. Have thish thing square and 'bove board, I say. Thash what I say."     

       "And very creditable to you being able to say it," said Jimmy, cordially.       "See if you can manage 'Truly rural'."     

       "What I say is—this! Jimmy's a fakir. And what I say is what's prevent him saying he's done it when hasn't done it?"     

       "That'll be all right," said Jimmy. "I'm going to bury a brass tube with the Stars and Stripes in it under the carpet."     

       Willett waved his hand.     

 Prev. P 8/207 next