“If you’re so set on this dollar being bad,” he said angrily, “I’ll bet you what you dare it’s not bad.”

“Done with you for twenty!” Mitchell covered it promptly.

Loring drew out a handful of bills.  “Here you are.  Any one else want any of this?” he inquired captiously.

Archibald shook his head and laughed.  Wyatt screwed his monocle into his eye, regarded both sides of the coin attentively, and laid it down.

“Quite bad, I assuah you,” he said.  “I should pwonounce it about the wohst specimen extahnt.”

“Maybe you’d like to bet on it?” said Loring, flaunting the big bills.

Wyatt was evidently nettled.  “Weally, you aw wong—­I assuah you,” he said stiffly.

“If you aw—­pawdon me—­quite able to lose that money without—­ah—­inconvenience I am weady to covah it, at least, as fah as what I have with me goes.”

“Done!” said Loring.  This was not so bad, after all.

“How much?...  Aw!  Seventeen thousand.  Exactly.  The bet is made, gentlemen.  I—­ah—­propose that we wing the bell foh the pwopwietah and, shahl we say, the clahk, to act as judge and stakeholdeh.”

“That will be satisfactory,” said Loring.  “Allow me, in turn, to make a suggestion, Mr. Wyatt.  Put the money in your billbook, hand it to the stakeholder, and let him give it, unopened, to the winner.  Of course, you will first take out your other money.  There is no need for them to know that more than a trivial sum is at stake.  We do not want to court unpleasant notoriety.”

“Quite twue!  An excellent suggestion,” said Wyatt gravely.  He proceeded to put it in effect.

The summoned dignitaries arrived, the situation was explained, and Wyatt, handing the money to the proprietor and the questionable dollar to the clerk, requested judgment.

The clerk looked at the coin, rubbed it, rang it.  It gave out a dull and leaden sound.

“Bad, beyond a doubt,” he said.

“Try it with your knife,” said Loring confidently.

The clerk complied.  By mischance he bore on too hard.  The knife went through to the table.

A sound of mirth swept to them.  With horror frozen on their faces, the three rascals were aware of Thompson, leaning in the doorway—­unmistakably sober, given up to reprehensible levity, holding out a bright tin pail with an expectant air.

Let us give even the devil his due.  For Mitchell laughed.

THE END