“Fremont? Fremont’s a dollar and forty-five.”
Joe looked thoughtful. He had, as he knew, only something like a dollar and eighty cents in his pocket, which would come very far from being sufficient. If he went back to the house he might borrow enough from Aunt Sarah and he might not. Aunt Sarah seldom kept more than a dollar or two on hand, and it would be folly to start out for Fremont or Sandusky with less than six or seven dollars in his pocket. He tried to think of some other place to get the money. There was Mr. Strobe, but Joe had a dim idea that Jack had said something about his father going to Chicago the day before. Perhaps the agent would know whether Mr. Strobe was out of town. He looked across to find that person viewing him smilingly.
“Not enough, eh?” he asked.
Joe grinned and shook his head. “Not nearly enough. I guess I ought to have six or seven dollars. Do you know whether Mr. Strobe’s in town?”
“I know he left for the West yesterday morning. Whether he’s back or not I can’t say. He carries mileage, so I don’t know where he started for. Is he a friend of yours?”
“Yes. His son, Jack, and I run that news-stand together. I thought if he was at home I’d run up there while we’re waiting and ask him to lend me about five dollars.”
“I guess you wouldn’t find him. Where’s the son?”
“He’s at home, but he’s ill with quinsy. I wouldn’t want to trouble Jack with the business right now.”
“What’s your name?”
“Joseph Faulkner.”