Ben, too, ventured upon a piece of pie. He did not wholly enjoy the dishes provided at the restaurant. He felt that he should have preferred his mother’s cooking. The charges, however, were moderate. Only twenty cents for each person.
Mr. Snodgrass rose from the table and took up his check.
Then he thrust his hand into his pockets, and after a little his face wore an air of perplexity.
“I really believe I haven’t any money with me,” he said. “I must have left it in the pockets of my other trousers. Awkward, isn’t it?”
“I will advance you the money, Mr. Snodgrass,” said Ben.
“Thank you,” rejoined the novelist with an air of relief. “You shall soon have it back. The publisher of the Bugle is owing me a balance of ten dollars on my serial, and that I shall probably collect to-morrow. I shall be glad to reimburse you.”
“No hurry, Mr. Snodgrass!”
“You are very kind, Mr. Bruce. I am really delighted to have made your acquaintance.”
“Thank you. Were you always an author, Mr. Snodgrass?”
“I was a schoolboy once,” said the novelist facetiously.