“Well,” said Henry Rooter, “have you got any money at home?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Have you got any money with you?”

“Yes, I have.”

“How much is it?”

“I won’t tell you.”

Henry frowned.  “I guess we ought to make her pay about two dollars and a half,” he said, turning to his partner.

Herbert became deferential; it seemed to him that he had formed a business association with a genius, and for a moment he was dazzled; then he remembered Florence’s financial capacities, always well known to him, and he looked depressed.  Florence, herself, looked indignant.

“Two dollars and a half!” she cried.  “Why, I could buy this whole place for two dollars and a half, printing-press, railing, and all—­yes, and you thrown in, Mister Henry Rooter!”

“See here, Florence,” Henry said earnestly.  “Haven’t you got two dollars and a half?”

“Of course she hasn’t!” his partner assured him.  “She never had two dollars and a half in her life!”

“Well, then,” said Henry gloomily, “what we goin’ to do about it?  How much you think we ought to charge her?”

Herbert’s expression became noncommittal.  “Just let me think a minute,” he said, and with his hand to his brow he stepped behind the unsuspicious Florence.

“I got to think,” he murmured; then with the straightforwardness of his age, he suddenly seized his damsel cousin from the rear and held her in a tight but far from affectionate embrace, pinioning her arms.  She shrieked, “Murder!” and “Let me go!” and “Help!  Hay-yulp!”

“Look in her pocket,” Herbert shouted.  “She keeps her money in her skirt pocket when she’s got any.  It’s on the left side of her.  Don’t let her kick you!  Look out!”

“I got it!” said the dexterous Henry, retreating and exhibiting coins.  “It’s one dime and two nickels—­twenty cents.  Has she got any more pockets?”

“No, I haven’t!” Florence fiercely informed him, as Herbert released her.  “And I guess you better hand that money back if you don’t want to be arrested for stealing!”

But Henry was unmoved.  “Twenty cents,” he said calculatingly.  “Well, all right; it isn’t much, but you can have your poem in our newspaper for twenty cents, Florence.  If you don’t want to pay that much, why, take your ole twenty cents and go on away.”

“Yes,” said Herbert.  “That’s as cheap as we’ll do it, Florence.  Take it or leave it.”

“Take it or leave it,” Henry Rooter agreed.  “That’s the way to talk to her; take it or leave it, Florence.  If you don’t take it you got to leave it.”

Florence was indignant, but she decided to take it.  “All right,” she said coldly.  “I wouldn’t pay another cent if I died for it.”

“Well, you haven’t got another cent, so that’s all right,” Mr. Rooter remarked; and he honourably extended an open palm toward his partner.  “Here, Herbert; you can have the dime, or the two nickels, whichever you rather.  It makes no difference to me; I’d as soon have one as the other.”