Pinky sat down upon the floor and hurriedly unlocked the traveling-bag.  Thrusting in her hand, she drew out first a muslin nightgown and threw it down, then a light shawl, a new barege dress, a pair of slippers, collars, cuffs, ribbons and a variety of underclothing, and last of all a small Bible and a prayer-book.  These latter she tossed from her with a low derisive laugh, which was echoed by her companion, Miss Peter.

The bundle was next opened, and the cloth sacque, the hat, the boots and stockings and the collar and cuffs thrown upon the floor with the contents of the bag.

“How much?” asked Pinky, glancing up at the man.

They were the first words that had been spoken.  At this the man knit his brows in an earnest way, and looked business.  He lifted each article from the floor, examined it carefully and seemed to be making a close estimate of its value.  The traveling-bag was new, and had cost probably five dollars.  The cloth sacque could not have been made for less than twelve dollars.  A fair valuation of the whole would have been near forty dollars.

“How much?” repeated Pinky, an impatient quiver in her voice.

“Six dollars,” replied the man.

“Six devils!” exclaimed Pinky, in a loud, angry voice.

“Six devils! you old swindler!” chimed in Miss Peter.

“You can take them away.  Just as you like,” returned the man, with cool indifference.  “Perhaps the police will give you more.  It’s the best I can do.”

“But see here, Jerkin,” said Pinky:  “that sacque is worth twice the money.”

“Not to me.  I haven’t a store up town.  I can’t offer it for sale in the open market.  Don’t you understand?”

“Say ten dollars.”

“Six.”

“Here’s a breast-pin and a pair of ear-rings,” said Miss Peter; “we’ll throw them in;” and she handed Jerkin, as he was called, the bits of jewelry she had taken from the person of Flora Bond.  He looked at them almost contemptuously as he replied,

“Wouldn’t give you a dollar for the set.”

“Say eight dollars for the whole,” urged Pinky.

“Six fifty, and not a cent more,” answered Jerkin.

“Hand over, then, you old cormorant!” returned the girl, fretfully.  “It’s a shame to swindle us in this way.”

The man took out his pocket-book and paid the money, giving half to each of the girls.

“It’s just a swindle!” repeated Pinky.  “You’re an old hard-fisted money-grubber, and no better than a robber.  Three dollars and a quarter for all that work!  It doesn’t pay for the trouble.  We ought to have had ten apiece.”

“You can make it ten or twenty, or maybe a hundred, if you will,” said Jerkin, with a knowing twinkle in his eyes.  He gave his thumb a little movement over his shoulder as he spoke.

“That’s so!” exclaimed Pinky, her manner undergoing a change, and her face growing bright—­at least as much of it as could brighten.  “Look here, Nell,” speaking to Miss Peter, and drawing a piece of paper from her pocket, “I’ve got ten rows here.  Fanny Bray gave me five dollars to go a half on each row.  Meant to have gone to Sam McFaddon’s last night, but got into a muss with old Sal and Norah, and was locked up.”