I said, “You don’t happen to have a couple of corn-cob pipes, do you? Do you give out certificates with tobacco? Look at this, Westy,” I said. “Here’s about a thousand dollars’ worth of matches right here. This kid is a whole sulphur mine. Where are you going to get the thousand dollars, kid?” I asked him.
“I’m—I’m going to invent a submarine,” he said.
“Good night!” I said, going through his pockets for more matches. “That’s a good idea. Under the water is about the safest place for you. I hope you carry fire insurance. You started a peach of a fire last night, didn’t you?”
“I can start a bigger one than that,” he said.
Just then I hauled out from one of his pockets a book. The cover was all broken off it and it was all loose and torn. The title-page said SKYHIGH SAM AND HIS SUBMARINE.
“Who’s this fellow?” I said.
“That’s a funny name for a kid that goes down in a submarine—Skyhigh.”
“He used to have a balloon,” the poor kid said.
I said, “Well, anyway, you’ve got him beat on matches. You started a bigger fire than he ever did, that’s one thing. What’s your name?”
“Sam,” he said.