“Of course!” I retorted, impatiently. “What else is it for a fellow to be stranded as I am? You surely wouldn’t call it a blessing, would you?”
“I might!”
“What!”
Then Thropper, without another word, deliberately turned inside out each pocket that he owned and deposited in my hands the following items: A well-worn ink and pencil eraser, a fountain pen, a stub of a Dixon’s indelible pencil, some blurred pencil notes, a half-dozen toothpicks, a crumpled letter, a bunch of keys, a bachelor button, two handkerchiefs, and fifteen cents in two nickels and five coppers.
“There,” he sighed. “That’s all. There’s not a penny in my trunk. The money represents my worldly fortunes—until I go out and earn more. I, too, have to rely upon my own efforts. Shake, Priddy!”
The big-hearted fellow reached for my empty hand and gave it a vigorous shaking.
“You’re not bad off!” he declared. “Let me tell you why. You see,” he went on to explain, “after you’ve got in the swing of things here, you become somewhat of a social or economic philosopher. You’re rich, Priddy!” He smiled benevolently on me.
“What do you mean?” I demanded.
“You’re English, aren’t you?”
“Of course.”