“Say, Sam,” interrupted Tom. “I’ve got to get back home. Can’t you hurry some?”
“I could, but I was jest tryin’ to be polite—”
“Don’t bother to be,” growled Tom.
“All right, son,” Sam continued. “We’ll jest cut out the po-lightness and get down to hard tacks. Where’d y’u get that money?”
“Well, I didn’t get it around here—”
“Now, I’m not accusin’ you, Tom.” Again the square smile. “But you see, this ain’t pay day and three dollars—”
“Can’t anybody in Barbend have three dollars ’cept old Nancy Trivett!”
“Not at the same identical time—’cordin’ to Nancy.” The chuckle that followed this was drowned in a noisy shuffle of Tom’s impatient feet.
“I tell you, Sam, I don’t know anything about Trivett’s money. This is mine.”
“But where’d y’u get it?”