Thirty-eight dollars and fifty-three cents? He could scarcely believe his eyes.
Then he lay back, not quite so grief-stricken, and stared thoughtfully into space until Mrs. Fletcher called him for dinner.
"Thirty-eight dollars and fifty-three cents."
At the table, that evening, he was unusually quiet. As he finished his last slice of bread and butter, he looked up at his father.
"Dad, if a fellow earns a lot of money, all by himself, he can spend it any way he wants, can't he?"
Mr. Fletcher nodded. "Why, son?"