“You’re going to the city, I suppose.”
“The city?”
“New York.”
“Oh,” said Harvey, wide-eyed and thoughtful, “I—I thought you meant Blakeville. I’m going out there for a visit with my Uncle Peter. He’s the leading photographer in Blakeville. My mother’s brother. No, I’m not going to New York. Not on your life!”
All the way to the station he was figuring 200 on how far the twenty dollars would go toward paying his fare to Blakeville. How far could he ride on the cars, and how far would he have to walk? And what would his crabbed old uncle say to an extended visit in case he got to Blakeville without accident?
He bought some cigarettes at the newsstand and sat down to wait for the first train to turn up, westward bound.