"We don't see overmuch rag money in Red Creek."
"Guess that's so," admitted Steve. "They do come in handy, though,
sometimes; when you want to send a dollar in a letter or something of
that kind."
"That's a fac', too; never thought of that." Which, since he never
wrote or received letters, was no doubt true.
"Men around here don't have much use for paper money, do they?"
continued Packard carelessly, his interest seeming to centre in his
cigarette smoke. "I'd bet a man the drinks nobody else has asked you
for a dollar bill for the last six months."
"You'd lose," said Whitey. "I had three of 'em in the drawer for a
coon's age; feller asked me for 'em jus' the other night."
"Yes?" He masked his eagerness as he thrust a quarter forward. "The
drink's on me then. Let me have a cigar."
Whitey also took a cigar, indicating friendliwise the better box.
"Who was it asked you for the paper money?" Steve went on. "He might
have one he doesn't need."
"It was Stumpy Collins. The bootblack across the street."
"I'll look him up; yesterday he had them, you say?"
Wimble shook his head, gave the matter his thought a moment, and said:
"It was las' Saturday night; I remember 'cause there was a right smart
crowd in an' I was busy an' Stumpy kep' pesterin' me until I 'tended to
him. He won't have nothin' lef by this, though; it ain't Stumpy's way
to save his money long.
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