“Same here,” retorted Tommy. He was in bed trying not to think about Bill's carburetor and the new cars he would sell by the thousand, when his door opened.
Bill stuck his head into the room. “Tommy!” he whispered.
“Yes, what is it?”
“I—I am much obliged.”
“Did you wake me up to tell me that?”
“Yes. And I have a sneaking notion—”
“My business hours, Mr. Byrnes, are five a.m. to ten p.m.,” interrupted Tommy, because what he really wanted was to listen to Bill all night, and he knew he had to fight against the feeling that he was a kid tickled to death with a new toy.
“All right,” said Bill, meekly; “but I wanted to tell you I was much obliged—”
“You have. Now go to sleep.”
“I can't!”