“If you'll let me pay you back again,” said Clarence, a little ashamed, and considerably frightened at his implied accusation of the man before him.
“You can,” said the man, bending over his desk again.
Clarence took up the money and awkwardly drew out his purse. But it was the first time he had touched it since it was returned to him in the bar-room, and it struck him that it was heavy and full—indeed, so full that on opening it a few coins rolled out on to the floor. The man looked up abruptly.
“I thought you said you had only twenty dollars?” he remarked grimly.
“Mr. Peyton gave me forty,” returned Clarence, stupefied and blushing. “I spent twenty dollars for drinks at the bar—and,” he stammered, “I—I—I don't know how the rest came here.”
“You spent twenty dollars for DRINKS?” said the man, laying down his pen, and leaning back in his chair to gaze at the boy.
“Yes—that is—I treated some gentlemen of the stage, sir, at Davidson's Crossing.”
“Did you treat the whole stage company?”
“No, sir, only about four or five—and the bar-keeper. But everything's so dear in California. I know that.”
“Evidently. But it don't seem to make much difference with YOU,” said the man, glancing at the purse.