Ralph extended a ten-dollar bill to Slavin. The eyes of his engrossed companions snapped at the sight of so much money. As for Slavin himself, he stared at the bill and then at Ralph in stupid wonder.
"Take it," urged Ralph.
"Mine?" gulped Slavin slowly.
"Of course it's yours."
"You give it?"
"Why not? I collected damages from the circus people—that's your share."
Slavin's fingers trembled as he took the proffered banknote. He wriggled restively, looked up, and then looked down.
"Say," he spoke hoarsely at last, "your name is Fairbanks."
"Yes," nodded Ralph.
"A good name, and you're a good sort. I jumped on you wrong the other night, and I want to say it right here. I thought Mort Bemis was my friend. This afternoon he took up with a fellow named Slump, broke open my trunk, stole two of my silver medals, and sloped. That's what I got for being his friend. Now you come and do me a good turn. I'm not your kind, and we can't ever mix probably, but if ever you want anyone hammered, I'll be there. See? I'm—I'm obliged to you, Fairbanks. You've taught me
