Of his pitiful hoard of a few moments since only a few dimes and nickels remained.
And just across the street was the Third National Bank with barrels of them.
The whimsies of the contrast almost amused him; but there was not enough of the Tapley about him to detect its humor.
Again he counted his resources.
Fifty-eight cents!
He could lodge to-night, at any rate, and dine on one of those sidewalk pretzels.
“The darkest hour is just before the dawn.” Dennis tried to cheer himself with this reflection, but the only dawn upon which he could calculate was five days off.
In vain the poor fellow adjured his brains for some homely suggestion, some meager inspiration.
Nothing responded but his destitution, like the echo of a groan; and through such mental straits he arrived, at last, at The Stag.
He decided that he would do nothing radical until the following day.