“Here, Mrs. Zecatacas, I don’t hardly know what this all means, but this is from me to you. And ‘good luck’ with it.”
With dignity, the three gypsies slowly left the room.
For a moment, President Elder sat and drummed on the table with his fingers.
“Bud,” he said at last, “you seem to have the sudden faculty of making good friends. These good people—including my old friend Camp here—are no better friends of yours than I am. When I see any one gettin’ the worst of it, I want to give ’em a lift. That right ‘Stump’?”
“That’s my motto.”
“Well,” went on the banker, “you’ve been gettin’ the worst of it, Bud. You’re eighteen years old, and you’ve got the stuff in you to do things. But you’ve got to get an education.”
Bud smiled and shook his head doubtfully.
“Mr. Camp tells me Mr. Stockwell has put you out of his house, and that you are going to live with him.”
“If he’ll let me,” said Bud. “But he can’t keep me for nothing. I’ll have to work, and while I’m workin’ I can’t go to school.”
“Are you through the grammar school?”