"Mr. Hennage, I fear you're getting to be one of the presuming kind. I
declare I haven't had such pretty speeches made me this year. By the
way, how's the kitty?"

Harley P.'s russet countenance swelled like the wattles on a
Thanksgiving turkey. He leaned over the counter and gazed under it; his
glance swept the room; he even, peered under his stool. Finally he
looked up at Donna with his three gold teeth flashing through his
trustful, childish smile.

"I dunno" he answered. "I guess she's around the house somewheres. I
ain't seen her in quite a spell."

"I thought so," she answered gravely, "or you wouldn't have returned to
San Pasqual. Small game for a small pocketbook, eh, Mr. Hennage?" She
came closer to him. "I don't mind telling you--just between friends,
you understand--that I have a couple of hundred to stake you to if
you're hard up, but for goodness sake don't tell Mrs. Pennycook. She
talks."

"Good Lord" gasped the gambler, and choked on a crouton. "D'ye mean it,
Miss Donna?"

"Certainly."

"You're a dead game sport and I'd take you up, because I understand
that it's between pals, but you ain't got no notion o' tryin' to square
me for--you know!"