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.