“Seventy-three dollars!” Robert shouted. “Kitchin, what are you talking about?”
“Well, don’t shout at me,” said Kitchin. “I can’t help it! I didn’t do it! But if you get out of here that’s what you’ve got to pay.”
“Seventy-three dollars!” Robert cried. “Seventy-three dollars for what?”
“Well, Robert,” said Kitchin patiently, “you’ve got to pay fifty dollars fine and one dollar costs. That’s because you were driving the car. That’s fifty-one. And Emmet and Eugene here have to pay ten dollars apiece and one dollar costs—that’s twenty-two dollars more. That figures up to seventy-three dollars. Have you got it?”
“Why, the dirty grafting sons of bitches!” Blake now cried. “Telling us that everything would be all right and that they had put us in here so we wouldn’t hurt ourselves!… All right, you cheap grafting bastards!” he shouted at the top of his lungs, rattling the barred door furiously as he spoke. “We’ll give you your dirty graft—but wait till I get out of here!” he cried threateningly. “Just wait till I get out! George Blake will tend to you!” he shouted. “It’ll be the worst day’s work you’ve ever done!”
But no one answered, although Blake and Robert cursed foully and shouted insults at the men. Meanwhile Kitchin waited patiently before their cells until the furious tumult should subside a little; when they were calmer he suggested that they pool their resources to see if they had enough to pay the total of the fines. But the sum of their combined funds was only a little more than forty dollars, of which Blake and Robert contributed the greater part and of which Eugene could contribute less than three dollars, which was all he had.
When it was apparent that their total funds would not be adequate to secure their release Blake, still furiously angry, began to talk in a loud and drunken tone of bravado about his famous uncle, scrawling out a cheque and instructing Kitchin to go at once to the local agent for his uncle’s motor cars and get the necessary money.
“Any Blake dealer in the country will cash my personal cheque for fifty thousand dollars any time I need it!” he cried with extravagant boast, as if he thought this threat of opulence would strike terror to the hearts of the police. “Yes, sir!” he said. “All you got to do is to walk into any Blake agency in the country and tell them George Blake’s nephew needs money—and they’ll give you everything they’ve got!” he cried. “Tell’em you need ten thousand dollars,” he said, coming down in
