The money must go to New York. It was not much, but it would help. It was as much as he could save in thirty weeks.
He hesitated. He saw his duty to his father. Then with the package still unbroken in his hand he went back to Bill's room.
“Bill!” said Tommy. His throat was dry. It made his voice husky.
“What's the matter? Is it stolen?” asked Bill in alarm. Tommy's voice had told him something was wrong.
“No,” said Tommy. “Only I—I was thinking—” He paused.
“Cold feet?” Bill smiled a heroic smile of resignation, the triumph of friendship. He was blaming luck and no one else.
Tommy saw the smile and divined the loyalty with a pang. Bill was a man!
It really was Bill's money; the promise had been passed. He had been guilty of a boyish impulse. This was his first scrape! He heard his mother say he must not be thoughtless again.
“No,” said Tommy, firmly, “but—Let me tell you, Bill. My uncle gave this money to my mother before I was born—one hundred dollars in gold. She saved it for me.”
He showed Bill what she had written. Bill held the package near the light and read slowly: “For Tommy's first scrape!” He looked at Tommy uncomfortably.