“And, Tom,” her sweet-flag roots were shedding their damp grains of earth over her checked gingham, “how are you going to get the bike fixed?”
“Got to wait—till I earn it, extra.”
“Then you’ll have to walk.”
“That’s nothing.”
“It will take twice as long.”
“I know. But the chain’s broke.”
“Where is it?”
“Up at Nash’s.”
“How much will it cost?”
“How much do you think?”