Marshey, his dull eyes watching Hazen write the receipt, was folding the little pouch and putting it away. Hazen tore off the bit of paper and gave it to him. Doan took it and he said humbly: “Thank’e, sir.”
Hazen nodded.
“Mind now,” he exclaimed, and Marshey said: “I’ll do my best, Mr. Kinch.”
Then he turned and shuffled across the room and out into the hall and we heard him descending the stairs.
When he was gone I asked Hazen casually: “What was it that he dropped upon the table?”
“A dollar,” said Hazen promptly. “A dollar bill. The miserable fool!”
Hazen’s mental processes were always of interest to me.
“You mean to give it back to him?” I asked.
He stared at me and he laughed. “No! If he can’t take care of his own money—that’s why he is what he is.”
“Still it is his money.”
“He owes me more than that.”
“Going to give him credit for it?”
“Am I a fool?” Hazen asked me. “Do I look like so much of a fool?”
“He may charge you with finding it.”
“He loses a dollar; I find one. Can he prove ownership? Pshaw!” Hazen laughed again.
“If there is any spine in him he will lay the thing to you as a theft,” I suggested. I was not afraid of angering Hazen. He allowed me open speech; he seemed to find a grim pleasure in my distaste for him and for his way of life.
“If there were any backbone in the man he would not be paying me eighty dollars a year on a five-hundred-dollar loan—discounted.”
Hazen grinned at me triumphantly.
“I wonder if he will come back,” I said.
“Besides,” Hazen continued, “he lied to me. He told me the eleven-fifty was all he had.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “There is no doubt he lied to you.”
Hazen had a letter to write and he bent to it. I sat by the stove and watched him and considered. He had
