“Ninety-three what?” demanded Pee-wee.
“Cents,” said the ticket agent, distantly.
“Thank you very much,” said Fuller, taking the tickets and paying the money.
“Is it—is it ninety-three cents each?” Pee-wee gasped, still hoping desperately.
“Thirty-one cents each,” said the ticket agent, still looking straight ahead of him and speaking like a mechanical doll.
“Where are we going to go? Where are we going to go?” Pee-wee whispered excitedly as they strolled away.
“We are going to have the time of our lives,” said Fuller.
“Yes, where?” Pee-wee demanded in a fever of suspense.
“We are going to Snailsdale Manor,” said Fuller Bullson.