she had wa'n't any quitter. Elisha puts on such a hard, cold sneer
too; and comin' from this wise, foxy old near-plute who'd been playin'
lead pipe cinches all his life, I expect, and never lettin' go of a
nickel until he had a dime's worth of goods in his fist--well, it got
to me, all right.

[Illustration: "Say, I'm a bear for Paris."]

"You win," says I, flashin' my roll and startin' to count off the
twenties.

"But, McCabe!" gasps Elisha P. "Surely you're not going to lend two
hundred dollars to--to such a person as this?"

"Yep," says I. "This is my foolish day. And I'm goin' to write you a
check for two hundred more for a six months' option on that Sucker Brook
tract. Here you are, Mrs. Moran. Never mind the ticket for Tim. I'm
takin' your word."

"Talk about miracles!" says Millie, countin' the money dazed.

"Bless you, Sorr!" says Tim husky as I shows 'em out.

And I finds Elisha P. sittin' there rubbin' his hands expectant. He must
have suspicioned I was easy all the while, or he wouldn't have hung on
so; but after this exhibition I expect he felt it was only a matter of
makin' a few passes and then walkin' off with everything but my shirt.
Fact is, though, I'd had some new dope on this property, and while it
looked like a thirty-to-one shot I thought I'd take a chance. Course, he
tries to close the deal outright; but the option is as far as I'll go.

For weeks after that, though, I carried four hundred on the books with a
minus sign in front. Then I crossed it off altogether. Not a word from
the Morans. Nothing doing in the way of buying booms around Sucker
Brook. But you got to stand some losses now and then if you're goin' to
keep in line for an occasional big cleanup. And, anyway, it was worth
while to head Elisha P. Bayne's boob list. You ought to see the
sarcastic smiles he used to shoot over when we'd meet and he'd ask if
I'd heard from, my dancing friends yet. Say, I expect I furnished the
one joke of his life.

I did bank on gettin' back something from Millie, though, if only a
money order for ten on account. But all through June and July, clear
into August, not a whisper. Whatever her scheme had been, it must have
gone wrong.

And then here one mornin' last week as I'm gazin' idle out the front
window onto 42d-st., up rolls a taxi, and out climbs a couple that you
might have said had been shot over by aeroplane from the Rue de Rivoli.
Couldn't tell that so much from her getup as from the