"That looks appetising," says I to my pal. "What d'ye want to bet I can't take that away from Mr. Bear?"
"Lay ye a five-pun' note," says he.
"Done," says I.
The betting was pretty brisk. You know how it is out there—a lot of different windows for different amounts and the bettors filing up between the rails. The Russian goes to the one-hundred-frank slip, and I shove in beside him. There was a crowd ahead of us, so for the moment he left his money where it was, waiting to get to the window before hauling it out. He had on a long, light overcoat with slash pockets, and watching my chance I slipped my hand through and felt for the wad. I peeled one or two bills off, and was just cuddling the whole bunch, winking over my shoulder at Jeff, when clip! something closed on my wrist like a bear-trap! Body o' me! You'd never have thought to find such strength in a human fist! His fingers closed around my wrist like a vise, so that I couldn't even begin to straighten em out. Of course I didn't know it at the time, but his nibs was Prince Kharkoff, and he was in the habit of amusing his friends by such little parlour stunts as bending up five-franc pieces and tearing two-sou pieces apart!
"Umph!" says he, blowing a mouthful of cigar-smoke in my face, and I could see his big white teeth shining through his beard.
Everybody looked around, and the gendarme who was on duty at the booths steps up.
Well, there wasn't much for me to say. The cop pulled back the overcoat, and the Russian lugged
