pawned the things. I did it to buy something to eat with."
"And something to drink," I added, for his breath smelled of liquor, although he was not intoxicated.
"No—only something to eat."
"Where are the tickets?" was Oliver's question, and after some hesitation, the one-armed sailor brought forth two wet and greasy bits of pasteboard issued by a San Francisco pawnbroker, showing all of the articles had been pawned for a dollar and seventy-five cents.
"Have you got that money?" demanded Oliver, as he placed the tickets in the envelope to an old letter he happened to be carrying.
"I've got fifty cents of it, and that's all."
"Hand it over."
The one-armed sailor did so, his face in the meantime growing full of bitter hatred.
"Now vamose," cried Oliver. "And if you ever show your face in these parts again I'll have you arrested."
"I won't show myself, don't you fear," was the quick answer, and in a moment the sailor had turned and was walking back to the highway. Once there, he turned, shook his fist at us, and disappeared around a bend.
"A bad egg," was Dan's comment. "I never want to see him again."
