“Ah! What’s your father’s name?”
“Dorrell, same as mine.”
“Naturally. And what do you call your village?”
“Barton Abbas.”
“Well, Tom, here’s your two shillings. You’ve got a bank-book, I suppose.”
“Rather. I’ve got three pounds fourteen and ninepence; this makes sixteen and ninepence. I shall have another sixpence on Saturday for cleaning pa’son’s bicycle; that’ll make seventeen and threepence. Pa’son gives me sixpence a week.”
“You’re getting quite rich, you know. Well, Tom, thanks to you I shall get home in time for dinner.”
“I’m pretty hungry,” said Tom. “I guess it’s past my tea-time.”
“No doubt it is. Strawberry jam, eh?”
“No. Mother says that’s too dear. We have rhubarb and marrow, growed in the garden.”