“I don't know how I did it,” Tembarom answered, with increased cheer and interest in the situation. “It wasn't high-brow sort of work.”
Tummas leaned forward in his incredulous eagerness.
“Does tha mean that they paid thee for writin' it—paid thee?”
“I guess they wouldn't have done it if they'd been Lancashire,” Tembarom answered. “But they hadn't much more sense than I had. They paid me twenty-five dollars a week—that's five pounds.”
“I dunnot believe thee,” said Tummas, and leaned back on his pillow short of breath.
“I didn't believe it myself till I'd paid my board two weeks and bought a suit of clothes with it,” was Tembarom's answer, and he chuckled as he made it.
But Tummas did believe it. This, after he had recovered from the shock, became evident. The curiosity in his face intensified itself; his eagerness was even vaguely tinged with something remotely resembling respect. It was not, however, respect for the money which had been earned, but for the store of things “doin'” which must have been required. It was impossible that this chap knew things undreamed of.
“Has tha ever been to th' Klondike?” he asked after a long pause.
“No. I've never been out of New York.”
Tummas seemed fretted and depressed.