“How much do we owe you, please?” he asked.
“Twenty cents. The pie was on me.”
“I’d rather—rather——” Wayne’s remark dwindled to silence and he began an anxious search of all his pockets, a proceeding that brought a look of suspicion into the good-natured face of the man behind the counter.
“Lost your money?” asked the latter with a trace of sarcasm.
Wayne nodded silently. “I reckon I must have,” he muttered, turning out one pocket after another and assembling the contents on the counter; the tattered time-table, a toothbrush, a pair of stockings, two handkerchiefs, a knife, a pencil, some string, and two-cent stamp vastly the worse for having laid crumpled up in a vest pocket for many weeks. “It—it’s gone,” said Wayne blankly. “I had nearly four dollars last night, didn’t I, June?”
“Yes, sir, you certainly did, Mas’ Wayne, ’cause I seen it. Where you reckon you lost it?”
“I don’t know,” answered the other boy miserably. “It was in this pocket. I reckon it must have come out in the freight car.”
The proprietor of the lunch wagon frowned. It was an old game to him, but there was something apparently genuine in the troubled expressions of both boys and he was almost inclined to accept the story. At all events, it was only twenty cents, and he was good-hearted and the two youngsters looked rather down on their luck. “Well, never mind,” he said carelessly. “You can pay me some other time, kids.”
But Wayne shook his head. “You—you haven’t any money, have you, June?” he faltered. June shook his head sadly.