The room was a fairly large one, gaudily appointed with cheap furnishings, one of the Roost’s private parlors—­a girl on a couch in the corner had raised herself on her elbow, and her dark eyes were fixed uncompromisingly upon the Flopper, but she made no answer.

The Flopper laughed—­then a spasm seemed to run through him, a horrible boneless contortion of limbs and body, a slippery, twitching movement, a repulsive though almost inaudible clicking of rehabilitated joints—­and the Flopper stood erect.

The girl was on her feet, her eyes flashing.

“Can that stunt!” she cried angrily.  “You give me the shivers!  Next time you throw your fit, you throw it before you come around me, or I’ll make you wish you had—­see?”

The Flopper was swinging legs and arms to restore a normal channel of circulation.

“Y’oughter get used to it,” said he, with a grin.  “Ain’t Pale Face Harry come yet, an’ where’s the Doc?”

“Behind the axe under the table,” said the girl tartly—­and flung herself back on the couch.

“T’anks,” said the Flopper.  “Say, Helena, wot’s de new lay de Doc has got up his sleeve?”

Helena made no answer.

“Is yer grouch painin’ you so’s yer tongue’s hurt?” inquired the Flopper solicitously.

Still no answer.

“Well, go to the devil!” said the Flopper politely.

He resumed the swinging of his arms and legs, but stopped suddenly a moment later as a step, sounded outside in the hall and he turned expectantly.

A young man, thin, emaciated, with gaunt, hollow face, abnormally bright eyes and sallow skin, entered.  He was well, but modestly, dressed; and he coughed a little now, as though the two flights’ climb had overtaxed him—­it was the man who had headed the subscription list to the Flopper half an hour before in front of Black Ike’s Auditorium.

“Hello, Helena!” he greeted, nodding toward the couch.  “I shook the rubber-neck bunch at Ike’s, Flopper.  That was a peach of a haul, eh, old pal—­the boobs came to it as though they couldn’t get enough.”

A sudden and reminiscent scowl clouded the Flopper’s face.  He stepped to the table, reached his hand into his shirt, and flung down a single one-dollar bill and a few coins.

“Dere’s de haul, Harry—­help yerself”—­his invitation was a snarl.

Pale Face Harry had followed to the table.  He looked first at the money, then at the Flopper—­and a tinge of red dyed his cheek.  He coughed before he spoke.

“Y’ain’t going to stall on me, Flopper, are you?” he demanded, in an ominous monotone.

“Stall!”—­the word came away in a roar too genuine to leave any doubt of the Flopper’s sincerity, or the turbulent state of the Flopper’s soul.  “Stall nothin’!  De driver held me up fer some of it, an’ de cop pinched de rest.”

“And you the king of Floppers!” breathed Pale Face Harry sadly.  “D’ye hear that, Helena?  Come over here and listen.  Go ahead, Flopper, tell us about it.”