"Treats!" echoed Miss Billy. "You don't mean to say you have spent three dollars and sixty cents in treats, in that length of time!"
"It's awful when you come to look it squarely in the face," acknowledged Theodore. "But the girls come in,—and they expect it,—and what is a fellow to do?"
"It's horrid of them, anyhow! And I'll cut their acquaintance,—every one of them,—when I find out who they are!"
"You'll do nothing of the kind," said Theodore haughtily. "I'll fight my own battles, if you please."
"Three dollars and sixty cents! If I had it in plants!" upbraided Miss Billy.
"Three dollars and sixty cents! If I had it in shoes!" mourned Theodore.
The wrinkles disappeared from between Miss Billy's eyes and she laughed outright. "It's funny, anyhow," she declared. "And you're in an awful position. I don't see how you are going to wriggle out of it now. The girls have such confidence in you by this time,—and Brown's sodas are the best in town, if they do come high."
Theodore whistled through his closed teeth. "Laugh away, Miss Billy. Add every grain of discomfort you can. But I'll wriggle out of it sooner than you think. The one thing that worries me is the fear that I'll have to put my hand down into father's pocket for my new shoes—for that's what it amounts to. Of course I can pay him back in a few weeks, but I hate to ask him for it just now."
"I'll lend you my Christmas gold piece,—I'd love to, Ted."
"Well, I should say not. I haven't come to the place yet where I borrow from girls. And these shoes will be sandals before I borrow from father, either. But you're a good fellow, Miss Billy."