The man at the desk glanced at them and laughed. "Stage money, eh?"
"No, that's good money," Jeff assured him with a rather hollow smile. "They're just new bills, that's all."
The cashier picked one up and looked at it curiously. "I'm afraid it's no good here," he said, and pushed it back.
The bottom dropped out of Jeff's stomach. "What kind of money do you want? This is all I have."
The cashier's smile faded. He caught the eye of a man in uniform on one of the stools. The uniform was dark green, but the man acted like a policeman. He loomed up beside Jeff.
"What's the rasper?" he demanded. Other customers, waiting to pay their checks, eyed Jeff curiously.
"I guess I'm in trouble," Jeff told him. "I'm a stranger here and I got something to eat under the impression that my money was legal tender. Do you know where I can exchange it?"
The officer picked up the dollar bill and fingered it with evident interest. He turned it over and studied the printing. "United States of America," he read aloud. "What are those?"
"It's the name of the country I come from," Jeff said carefully. "I—uh—got on the wrong train, apparently, and must have come further than I thought. What's the name of this place?"