“I wonder if I’ll ever be able to help her, and relieve her of that hateful work,” he thought, as he tore the covering off the epistle. “It sure is a long time to wait—two years more, and then four more before I’ll really be earning anything worth while. Oh, why can’t I get hold of that railroad land?”
Tom’s self-asked question was accented in his mind a moment later by what he read in his mother’s letter.
“I wonder if it is possible, Tom, for you to send me a little money? I know you spoke of being paid a salary, and that it was held to accumulate for you. You said you would not need it all, and as I am a little pressed for cash just now, and as the sewing is falling off a little, I thought perhaps the authorities would give you some of what is rightfully yours.”
“Great Scott!” cried Tom, aloud, before he thought of what he was saying.
“No bad news, I hope, old man! is there?” asked Sam.
“No—er—that is not exactly—no,” Tom stammered. “It’s just a little matter. I dare say it will be all right.”
Though he tried to speak calmly, Tom’s mind was in a tumult. He hardly knew what to do, and for a moment he was tempted to lay the whole matter before Sam; but a natural delicacy stopped him.
Sam was wealthy, Tom knew, and he felt that as soon as money was mentioned his chum would offer to get him as much as was needed.
“I’ll try to get what is my own first,” Tom decided. “It isn’t much, but it will help mother out. Hang it all! Why can’t I earn money? Or why can’t I get what I believe is rightfully ours. I’m going to do something!”
Just what he was going to do Tom did not know. He could not decide so suddenly. Slowly he folded the letter from his mother, and placed it in his pocket. Sam watched his chum, covertly, and wished he could aid him.