“Certainly; fifteen off, Sam. That makes it—let me see—five dollars and six cents; call it five dollars even, Sam. What about the raincoat?”
“I’ve got an old one that will do, I guess. You see, I don’t want to spend very much, because the fare up there and back comes to over nine dollars, and that’s two weeks’ wages.”
“He didn’t say anything about paying your fare, then?”
Sam shook his head. “He wouldn’t, would he?”
“I don’t know. Seems to me he ought to pay it one way, at least, though, Sam. I’d mention it to him, anyway.”
“Maybe I will,” replied Sam doubtfully. “Well, I guess that’s all, then. I’ll take these things along with me. How many boys do you suppose there will be up there, Tom?”
“I don’t know. Maybe forty or fifty. And look here, Sam.” Tom walked around the counter when he had finished tying up the bundle and seated himself on the edge, swinging his legs. “Don’t do this,” he explained, “when there’s customers around. Look here, Sam. About those kids, now. Take my advice and start ’em off right.”
“How do you mean, Tom?”
“I mean make ’em understand right away that you won’t take any nonsense from them. Of course, a summer camp’s different from a school, I suppose, and there’s a lot more—more give-and-take between the councillors and the boys, but it’s a good idea, I guess, to make the kids understand that while you love ’em all to death you aren’t going to tell ’em to do a thing more than once. Get the idea? Kind but firm, Sam.”
“Anyone would think you invented boys’ camps,” said Sam, with a twinkle. Tom laughed.