“I don’t get you,” said Larry, and he meant it.
“I can mighty nearly put it into words of one syllable. I’m nineteen years old, Donnie, and up to date I can’t remember that I’ve ever done one single thing for anybody but Ollie McKnight—that is, nothing that has cost me anything.”
“Well, perhaps you haven’t had to.”
“That’s it; I haven’t. It’s been Dad’s money, ever since I can remember. If I wanted to throw a few dollars to the birds, I threw ’em—and got some more where they came from. It didn’t cost me anything.”
“You don’t have to tell me about it,” said Larry, meaning only to save the confider from possible future embarrassment.
“Don’t you go and trig the wheels,” McKnight put in quickly. “I’m not often taken this way, and it’ll do me good to unload and get it out of my system. What you said about little Purdy a few minutes ago—that you’d boost him through if you had the money—snagged me good and hard.”
“How was that?”
McKnight dug into a pocket and fished out a letter. It was typewritten on a Consolidated Steel letterhead, and he folded it over until he came to a paragraph near the end.
“Listen to this, and you’ll see what I mean,” he said; and then he read from the letter: “‘So you want a new car to enable you to cut a dash with the college boys and girls, do you? I was sort of hoping, Son, that your break into Old Sheddon would make you understand that there are some other things in the world besides having a good time, but it seems it hasn’t. But it’s all right with me. I’ve put two thousand dollars to your account in the college town bank, and you may buy a car with it—if that’s what you want more than anything else. But I should have been a pretty proud Dad if you’d wanted the money for something besides a plaything that you’ll wear out in a year.’”