He ain't above it, if all they tell of him's true. Maybe he's
got her coin away from her, and she had to go to work for a livin'.
Stranger things have happened in this burg, P.S."
It was the turn of P.S. to hesitate in doubt; or at all events, so
George Bross inferred from a sudden change in the expression of the
little man's eyes. Momentarily they seemed to cloud, as if in
introspection. But he rallied quickly enough.
"All things are possible, George," he admitted with his quizzical
grin. "But this time you're mistaken. I'm not arguing with you,
George; I'm _telling_ you: you're hopelessly mistaken."
"You think so--huh?" growled George. "Well, I got eight iron bucks
that says Marian Blessington to any five of your money."
He made a bold show of his pay envelope.
"It'd be a shame to rob you, George," said P. Sybarite. "Besides,
you're bad-tempered when broke."
"Never you mind about that. Here's my eight, if you've got five that
makes a noise like Molly Lessing."
P. Sybarite laughed softly and produced the little wad of bills that
represented his weekly wage. At this, George involuntarily drew back.
"And how would you settle the bet?"
"Leave it to her," insisted George in an expiring gasp of bravado.
"You'd ask her yourself?"
"Ye-es--"
"And let it stand on her answer?"
"Wel-l--"
"Here she comes now," added P. Sybarite, glancing up the street.
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