Suddenly he
smiled, and beckoned to Stuler.
"Stuler, how much will you advance me," he asked, "on a shotgun
worth one hundred crowns?"
"A shotgun worth one hundred crowns? Ten."
Johann made a negative gesture. "Fifty or none. You can sell it
for seventy-five in the morning. So could I, only I want the
money to-night."
"If you want wine--" began Stuler.
"I want money."
Stuler scratched his nose. "Bring the gun to me. If it is worth
what you say, I'll see what I can do."
"In an hour;" and Johann went out. A cold thin rain was falling,
and a dash of it in the face had a cooling effect. Somehow, the
exhilaration of the wine was gone, and his mood took a sullen
turn. Money! he was ever in need of money. He cursed his ill
luck. He cursed the cause of it--drink. But for drink he would
not have been plain Johann Kopf, brawler, outcast, spy, disowned
by his family and all save those who could use him. He remained
standing in the doorway, brooding.
At last he drew his collar about his throat and struck off, a
black shadow in a bank of gray. When he reached that part of the
street opposite the Grand Hotel, he stopped and sought shelter
under an awning.
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