“That is one place I’m not going,” said Fuller.
“You’re entirely right,” said Ray.
“I’ll call the constable,” said the agent.
“What for?” said Fuller. “I’m a cash customer and I ask for three tickets out of that rack. Will you sell them to me or not? I won’t tell you where I’m going.”
“You ought to go to the insane asylum,” said the ticket agent, subsiding somewhat.
“Don’t tell me where I ought to go,” said Fuller; “I won’t allow even myself to tell me that. Will you sell me the tickets or not? Three holes from the left and one down; that’s my order. I always have trouble with you ticket agents. Don’t you suppose I know what I want?”
“Quite right, Fuller,” said Ray.
“We’ve got a right to go to—to the Rocky Mountains if we want to,” Pee-wee piped up.
With an air of grim finality, as if washing his hands of all responsibility in the matter, the ticket agent reached around, took three tickets out of the pigeon-hole indicated and slapped them down in the worn hollow of the little window counter. At that moment Pee-wee wrenched open his shirt and frantically unpinned his sumptuous fortune. He hoped it would be enough.
“Ninety-three cents,” said the ticket agent, looking straight ahead of him, as if he scorned all connection with this thing.