"Here's the programme," he said by way of explanation. "I'm goin' to
put you over my knee and paddle you real thorough. When you make up
yore mind that you want to buy that suit for fifty-five dollars, it
will be up to you to let me know. Take yore own time about it. Don't
let me hurry you."
Before the programme had more than well started, the victim of it
signified his willingness to treat with the foe. To part with
fifty-five dollars was a painful business, but not to part with it was
going to hurt a good deal more. He chose the lesser of two evils.
While he was counting out the bills Clay bragged up the suit. He
praised its merits fluently and cheerfully. When he left he locked the
door of the office behind him and handed the key to one of the clerks.
"I've got a kinda notion Mr. Bernstein wants to get out of his office.
He's actin' sort o' restless, seems like."
Restless was hardly the word. He was banging on the door like a wild
man. "Police! Murder! Help!" he shouted in a high falsetto.
Clay wasted no time. He and the fifty-five dollars vanished into the
street. In his haste he bumped into a Salvation Army lassie with a
tambourine.
She held it out to him for a donation, and was given the shock of her
life. For into that tambourine the big brown man crammed a fistful of
bills. He waited for no thanks, but cut round the corner toward
Broadway in a hurry.
When the girl reached headquarters and counted the contribution she
found it amounted to just fifty-five dollars.
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