"Mind yer business," Billy returned, panting under the last load. "Put 'em on the train; that's you're lookout; and here's the money to pay for their ticket down State." Billy had found the money in an envelope tied to the trees.
"Well, I'll—be—blowed." Tom spelled out the address and took the money.
"Where does these hail from?" he asked.
"From the bungalow," Billy replied with unlooked-for promptness.
Tom had nothing more to say. The bungalow people had the right of way on the branch road. To and from the Junction the name of Drew was one to conjure with.
"I guess," Tom spat wide and far, "I guess she's aiming to decorate the hull blamed town, back there, with greens. She don't mind slashing, she don't."
"Shut up!" Billy commanded. Tom turned to look at the boy, who in the recent past had been his legitimate property, in common with others, to kick and swear at.
"Well by—" But he neither kicked nor swore at Billy. He relieved himself by expressing his feelings to inanimate objects.
Then Billy went up to the tavern. The dull pain was relaxing. The fine, cold air was clearing his muddled wits, and he felt the milk of human kindness reasserting itself in his new-born nature.
"Mr. Tate," he asked boldly, stepping behind the screen to the men's side. "Any letters here for Joyce?"