large drink, Dippel became helpless and maudlin and began to overflow with generous sentiments.  "I love you, Finkelstern, ol' man," he declared tearfully. "They say you're a dead beat, but wha' d'I care?" 

 "Finkelstern," affecting drunkenness, shed tears on Dippel's shoulder, denied that he was a "beat" and swore that he loved Dippel like a brother.  "You're my frien'," he said.  "I know you'd trust me to any amount." 

 Dippel took from his trousers pocket a roll of bills several inches thick. Feuerstein thrilled and his eyes grew eloquent as he noted tens and twenties and at least one fifty.  Slowly, and with exaggerated care, Dippel drew off a ten.  "There y'are, ol' dead beat," he said. "I'll stake you a ten. Lots more where that came from—soda-fountain counter's reg'lar gol' mine." 

 In taking off the ten, he dropped a twenty. It fluttered to the floor and the soldier of fortune, the scorner of toil and toilers, slid his foot over it as swiftly and naturally as a true aristocrat always covers an opportunity to get something somebody else has earned. He put the ten in his pocket, when Dippel's eyes closed he stooped and retrieved the twenty with stealth—and skill. When the twenty was hidden, and the small but typical operation in high finance was complete, he shook Dippel.  "I say, old man," he said, "hadn't you better let me keep your money for you? I'm afraid you'll lose it." 

 Dippel slowly unclosed one eye and gave him a look of glassy cunning. He again drew the roll from his pocket, and, clasping it tightly in his fist, waved it under Feuerstein's nose. As he did it, he vented a drunken chuckle.  "Soda fountain's gol' mine, Fishenspiel," he said thickly.  "No, you don't! I can watch my own roll."  He winked and chuckled. 

 "Sorry to disappoint you, Fishy," he went on, with a leer. Then he took off another ten and handed it to Feuerstein.  "Good fel', Fishy," he mumbled, "'f y' are a dead beat." 

 Feuerstein added the ten to the thirty and ordered more whisky. Dippel tried to doze, but he would not permit it.  "He mustn't sleep any of it off," he thought. 

 When the whisky came Dippel shook himself together and started up. "G'-night," he said, trying to stand, look and talk straight.  "Don't f'rget, y'owe me ten dollarses—no, two ten dollarses." 

 "Oh, sit down," coaxed Feuerstein, taking him by the arm. "It's early yet." 

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