In the sidewalk before the windows of this store was an iron grating of several yards’ area which opened upon a shaft leading into the cellar. As Pee-wee approached, Emerson was standing upon the grating looking intently down into the shaft below. Something evidently had happened and it seemed likely to have been incidental to his inspection of the posters in the window.
“What’s the matter?” asked Pee-wee.
“It’s plaguy exasperating,” said Emerson.
“What is?”
“This infernal grating; I dropped my tickets down; you can see them down there.”
Pee-wee looked down, and amid the litter of soiled and crumpled papers at the bottom of the shaft saw a small, fresh-looking, white envelope.
“I can’t go to the exhibition without them, I know that,” said Emerson, annoyed. “And I can’t get them, that’s equally certain.”
“What d’you mean you can’t get them?” Pee-wee demanded. Then in a sudden inspiration, he asked, “How many tickets are there?”
“Just two,” said Emerson, preoccupied with his downward gaze.
“You—you going with your mother or your sister?”