Drusilla looked at him with inquiring, sympathetic eyes.
"What can I do?" she asked.
"Well,"—and the man was most embarrassed—"I've been farmer enough to have my pocket picked on the train. I was sleepy and went to sleep and when I woke up my pocketbook that I always carried right here"—showing an inside pocket in his coat—"was gone. It had all my money and my mileage ticket."
"Well, I swan!" said Drusilla.
"Yes; I didn't know what to do. I tried to tell the man in the ticket office that I would send back my ticket money, but he wouldn't give it to me, and I—well—I don't know what to do. I feel I ought to go home to my wife at once, and—and—"
"How much is the ticket?"
"The ticket is only about three dollars and sixty cents—"
"Pshaw, that is very little. I'll get some money from James. I never have any."
She rang the bell; and when James returned with fifteen dollars she handed it to the man.
"You'd better have a little extra, as somethin' might happen," she said.