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 of the baited and challenged. He drew out his “roll” and slapped five tens upon the bar. The three or four young fellows who were thus “taken” more slowly produced their stake. The bartender, ex officio stakeholder, took the money, laboriously wrapped it, recorded the bet with an inch-long pencil and stuffed the whole into a corner of the cash register.

“And, oh, what’ll be done to you’ll be a plenty,” said a bettor, with anticipatory glee.

“That’s my lookout,” said the “Kid,” sternly. “Fill ’em up all around, Mike.”

After the round Burke, the “Kid’s” sponge, sponge-holder, pal, Mentor and Grand Vizier, drew him out to the bootblack stand at the saloon corner, where all the official and important matters of the Small Hours Social Club were settled. As Tony polished the light tan shoes of the club’s President and Secretary for the fifth time that day, Burke spake words of wisdom to his chief.

“Cut that blond out, ‘Kid,’” was his advice, “or there’ll be trouble. What do you want to throw down that girl of yours for? You’ll never find one that‘ll freeze to you like Liz has. She’s worth a hallful of Annies.”

“I’m no Annie admirer!” said the “Kid,” dropping a cigarette ash on his polished toe, and wiping it off on Tony’s shoulder. “But I want to teach Liz