"Yes," he admitted, with a beaming look. "But when I go broke, all other
things failin', I allers tackle a pawnbroker."

"We ain't got nothin' to pawn," sighed Amarilly.

She recalled the lace waist, but that, like the Lily Rose fund, was
sacred. There was always, to-day, yesterday, and forever, the surplice,
and her scruples regarding that article had of necessity become case-
hardened; still, Amarilly hesitated. A pawnshop seemed lower than a
police court.

"It's been everywhere else," she said loudly to the accusing, still,
small voice, "and it might jest as well go the limit. 'T won't bring
much, but 'twill help."

Through byways and highways Amarilly sought the region of the three-
balled porticoes. The shop of one Max Solstein attracted her, and she
entered his open door. Max, rat-eyed and frog-mouthed, came forward
propitiatingly.

"What'll you gimme on this?" came with directness from the small
importuner.

He took the garment, shook it, and held it up for falcon-gaze
inspection.

"Not worth much. A quarter of a dollar."

Amarilly snatched it from his grasp and fled. Not because of his low-
figured offer; she had fully expected to have to "beat him up." But when