"How much you got left?" asked Ricks, that night, as they stopped
under a street light to take stock.
Sandy held out a couple of dollars and a fifty-cent piece.
"Enough to put on the eyes of two and a half dead men," he said as he
curiously eyed the strange money.
"One, two,--two and a half," counted Ricks.
"Shillings?" asked Sandy, amazed.
Ricks nodded.
"And have I blowed all that to-day?"
"What of it?" asked Ricks. "I seen a bloke onct what lit his cigar
with a bill like the one you had!"
"But the doctor said it was two pounds," insisted Sandy,
incredulously. He did not realize the expense of a personally
conducted tour of the Bowery.
"Well, it's went," said Ricks, resignedly. "You can't count on settin'
up biz with what's left."
Sandy's brows clouded, and he shifted his position restlessly. "Now I
ax yerself, Ricks, what'u'd you do?" he said.
"Me? I don't give advice to nobody. But effen it was me I'd know
mighty quick what to do."
"What?" said Sandy, eagerly.
"Buy a dawg."
"A dog? I ain't goin' blind."
"Lor'! but you're a softhorn," said Ricks, contemptuously. "I s'pose
you'd count on leadin' him round by a pink ribbon."
"Oh, you mean a fighter?"
"Sure. My last dawg could do ever'thing in sight.
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