“There’s something else down in there,” he said. “Wait till I get it. It feels like a paper.”
I said, “Don’t bother; probably it’s a time table.”
“Maybe it’s somebody’s commutation ticket,” he said.
Because that old car had been used as a way station up at Brewster’s Centre until the railroad built a regular station, and I guess he thought that maybe some one might have dropped a ticket down in that crevice in the seat.
With the lead pencil Pee-wee kept pushing around down there between the plush and the wood and waving us away with the other hand, because I was after my pencil.
“Come on, Kid,” I said; “It’s getting late. You should worry.”
Just then a little corner of yellow paper came up with the pencil and slipped down again.
“Now you see,” he said; “I almost had it.”
“What good would an old last month’s commutation ticket be now?” I asked him.
“Shut up,” he said, all the while waving us back and wriggling the pencil up sideways in the crack; “I’ve got it, I’ve——”