I can scrape it up, all right.

How about you, Pink?
This is hard-boiled figures, now, and no guess work." Pink blew a mouthful of smoke while he did a little mental calculation.
Then he took his twisted-leather purse and emptied it into his saucer.

He investigated all his pockets and added eighty-five cents in small change.
Then he gravely began to count, not disdaining three pennies in the pile.
"I've got seventy-five dollars in the bank," he said.

"Add ninety dollars salary, and you have a hundred and sixty-five.

Add six dollars and eighty-seven cents, and you have--my pile." Rosemary twisted her lips and wrote the figures opposite Pink's name.
Next came Weary, then Miguel and Big Medicine and the dried little man who chewed violently upon a wooden toothpick and said he was good for eight hundred, and mebby a little mite more.
They pushed their plates to the table's center to make room for their gesticulating hands and uneasy elbows while they planned ways and means.
They argued over trivial points and left the big ones for Luck to settle.
They talked of light effects and wholesale grocery lists and ray filters and smoke pots and railroad fares and the problem of cutting down their baggage so as to avoid paying excess charges.