There was one girl--a pretty one--in a red shawl, crying in a corner like her heart would dissolve. Buck goes over and asks her about it. "It ain't so much losing the money, mister," says she, shaking all over, "though I've been two years saving it up; but Jakey won't marry me now. He'll take Rosa Steinfeld. I know J--J--Jakey. She's got $400 in the savings bank. Ai, ai, ai--" she sings out. [Illustration: "Jakey won't marry me now. He'll take Rosa Steinfeld."] Buck looks all around with that same funny look on his face. And then we see leaning against the wall, puffing at his pipe, with his eye shining at us, this newspaper reporter. Buck and me walks over to him. "You're a real interesting writer," says Buck. "How far do you mean to carry it? Anything more up your sleeve?" "Oh, I'm just waiting around," says the reporter, smoking away, "in case any news turns up. It's up to your stockholders now. Some of them might complain, you know. Isn't that the patrol wagon now?" he says, listening to a sound outside. "No," he goes on, "that's Doc. Whittleford's old cadaver coupé from the Roosevelt. I ought to know that gong. Yes, I suppose I've written some interesting stuff at times." "You wait," says Buck; "I'm going to throw an item of news in your way." Buck reaches in his pocket and hands me a key. I knew what he meant before he spoke. Confounded old buccaneer--I knew what he meant. They don't make them any better than Buck. "Pick," says he, looking at me hard, "ain't this graft a little out of our line? Do we want Jakey to marry Rosa Steinfeld?" "You've got my vote," says I. "I'll have it here in ten minutes." And I starts for the safe deposit vaults. I comes back with the money done up in a big bundle, and then Buck and me takes the journalist reporter around to another door and we let ourselves into one of the office rooms.