“A thousand—­all you want!” shouted Mitchell, in high glee.  “Getting on, Thompson?”

Steve, still laughing, shook his head.  “I’ll be stakeholder,” he said in a choking voice.

The black-eyed man shot a malevolent glance at him as they put up the money in his hands.  For he had a supernumerary jack of hearts, neatly palmed, to turn up if Steve “bit.”  This quickly disappeared, however, or rather did not appear at all.  With an expectant smile the artist turned up from the top of the deck the five of clubs.  He looked at it in stupefied amazement, which, if not real, was well invented.

Mitchell roared and pounded the suitcase.  “Oh, Loring!” he gasped, drying his eyes.  “You will teach an old dog new tricks, will you?  My stars, but you’re easy!” Retook the cash from the grinning stakeholder, counted out Loring’s half and pushed it over to that much discomfited gentleman.  “I don’t want to rob you!” he quoted mockingly.  “But if I had time I’d have kept you on the anxious seat a while.  There’s your jack of hearts, under your feet!”

“Why, you fat, old swindler!  You white-headed outrage—­you—­you Foxy Grandpa!” cried Loring in blushing chagrin—­not wholly dissembled, either.  “I ought to make you eat it.  Come, have a drink.”  He led the way, the others following with gibe and jeer.

“Why didn’t you bet with him, Thompson?” demanded Mitchell, still shaking with Homeric laughter.  “Say, I should have kept his money, by good rights.  ’Twould have been the joke of the season!”

Steve raised his glass.  “I would,” he replied innocently, “but I knew you’d give it back, anyhow, so what’s the use—­among friends?  If it had been a stranger, now, I’d ‘a’ hopped on the band-wagon too quick.  I like a little easy money as well as anybody.  Well, here’s to our next meeting!”

“Hello!” said Mitchell.  “Here’s the tunnel and Hoboken.  Let’s go back to our belongings.  Now, Thompson, business first and pleasure after, you know.  You take the Barclay Street boat.  If I don’t get time to see you before noon to-morrow you run up to the office and see me.  It’s only a block from the Cornucopia.  I’ve got to go the other way, and so does Loring—­at least his studio’s uptown.  I say, Loring, tell Mr. Thompson what’s doing at the theatres.  That’s in your line.”

Loring named several plays, recommending one as particularly good.  In the waiting-room they parted with warm handshakings and great good-will.

“Do you suppose he’s wise?” said Loring, on the ferry.

Mitchell guffawed.  “That bumpkin?  Not he.  The poor, dumb idiot took it all as a practical joke among friends.  Naturally, just as he said, he thought I’d give you your money back.  Glad you had presence of mind enough to go on through with the five-spot.  It’s fine business to be able to think on your feet, especially for us moon-minions.  Good thing it turned out the way it did.  He’s got perfect confidence in me now—­he’s seen me tried, and knows I’m straight.  We’ll get more out of him in the long run.”  He explained Steve’s mining expectations at length.