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"I ran up to the city one day last week," the paragraph read, "and who do you suppose I saw with Winfield Harrah in the lobby of the Hotel Strathmore? You would never guess. None other than our versatile friend T. Victor Sprudell!" How did they meet? For what purpose had Sprudell sought Harrah's acquaintance?
He doubted if even Harrah's fortune was larger than the one represented by his father's land and herds; but just as often as he thought of this way out just so often he realized that there were some things he could not do not even for Helen Dunbar not even to put his proposition through. That humiliation would be too much.
You needn't touch my proposition, you needn't even listen to it, but, hear me, you talk civil!" As Harrah arose Bruce took a step closer and looked at him squarely. A lurking imp sprang to life in Harrah's vivid eyes, a dare-devil look which found its counterpart in Bruce's own. "I believe you think you're a better man than I am." "I can lick you any jump in the road," Bruce answered promptly.
Obviously Sprudell had gotten in touch with the stockholders and managed somehow to poison their minds. This was the way, then, that he intended taking his revenge! Harrah's secretary had written Bruce in response to his last appeal that Harrah had been badly hurt in an aeroplane accident in France and that it would not be possible to communicate with him for months perhaps.
In the morning, Arthur waited an hour, but Penn didn't show up. He walked back to Harrah's and checked out. The desk clerk gave him five casino silver dollars "Our way of saying thank you, Sir." Arthur stopped at a slot machine near the exit and dropped the dollars in, pulling the long handle and waiting after each one.
Friends and foes alike had cheered in frenzy, but beyond the fact that the financial help which Harrah promised was contingent upon his success, Bruce felt no elation. The whole thing was a humiliation to him. But Harrah had been as good as his word. They had filed in to Bruce's top floor room one evening Harrah's friends headed by Harrah.
Laughingly, with much good-humored jest, they had made up the $25,000 between them and then trailed off to Harrah's box at the opera, taking Bruce with them, where he contributed his share to the gaiety of the evening by observing quite seriously that the famous tenor sounded to him like nothing so much as a bull-elk bugling.
Sometimes he found himself anticipating the moment when he should be telegraphing the amount of the clean-up to Helen Dunbar, to Harrah, and to Harrah's good-naturedly pessimistic friends. Bruce ransacked his brain for somebody in the world to envy, but there was no one.
Harrah represented to Bruce practically his last chance, but there was nothing in Harrah's veiled, non-committal eyes as he motioned Bruce to a chair and inquired brusquely: "Well what kind of a wild-cat have you got?" which would have led an observer to wager any large amount that his last chance was a good one.
It proved a wise precaution, since directly Bruce's challenge had been sent and it was known that he was Harrah's protegé, the papers had made much of it, publishing unflattering snapshots after he had steadily refused to let them take his picture.
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