And you tell The Mope I dock him five hundred for that extra crunch on Roessle's skull.

That sort of thing isn't necessary.

That's the kind of stunt that gets the public sore--the man was dead enough as it was.

See ?" "Sure!" Clarie Deane's ejaculation was a grunt.
Stangeist opened the bag, and dumped the contents on the desk--pile after pile of banknotes, the pay roll of the Martindale-Kensington Mills.
"Some haul!" observed Clarie Deane, with a hoarse chuckle.

"The papers said over twenty thousand." "You can't always believe what the papers say," returned Stangeist curtly; and, taking a scribbling pad from the desk, began to check up the packages.
Clarie Deane's cigar had gone out.