"Well, go to the devil!" said the Flopper politely.

He resumed the swinging of his arms and legs, but stopped suddenly a
moment later as a step, sounded outside in the hall and he turned
expectantly.

A young man, thin, emaciated, with gaunt, hollow face, abnormally bright
eyes and sallow skin, entered. He was well, but modestly, dressed; and
he coughed a little now, as though the two flights' climb had overtaxed
him--it was the man who had headed the subscription list to the Flopper
half an hour before in front of Black Ike's Auditorium.

"Hello, Helena!" he greeted, nodding toward the couch. "I shook the
rubber-neck bunch at Ike's, Flopper. That was a peach of a haul, eh, old
pal--the boobs came to it as though they couldn't get enough."

A sudden and reminiscent scowl clouded the Flopper's face. He stepped to
the table, reached his hand into his shirt, and flung down a single
one-dollar bill and a few coins.

"Dere's de haul, Harry--help yerself"--his invitation was a snarl.

Pale Face Harry had followed to the table. He looked first at the money,
then at the Flopper--and a tinge of red dyed his cheek. He coughed
before he spoke.

"Y'ain't going to stall on _me_, Flopper, are you?" he demanded, in an
ominous monotone.