"I have to get some money," he said, laying the plush case on the counter. "I have to get five dollars."
He knew from rueful experience that one can seldom get as much as he wants in such a place, and five dollars would at least get him to his destination. Surely, he thought, Roscoe would have some money.
There were a few seconds of dreadful suspense while the man took the precious Gold Cross over to the window and scrutinized it.
"Three," he said, coming back to the counter.
"I got to have five," said Tom.
The man shook his head. "Three," he repeated.
"I got to have five," Tom insisted. "I'm going to get it back soon."
The man hesitated, and looked at him keenly. "All right, five," he said reluctantly.
Tom's hand almost trembled as he emerged into the bright sunlight, thrusting the ticket into a pocket which he seldom used. He had not examined it, and he did not wish to read it or be reminded of it. He felt ashamed, almost degraded; but he was satisfied that he had done the right thing.
"I thought that trail made a bee-line for the platform in the Lyceum," he said to himself, as he folded his five-dollar bill. "Gee, it's a funny thing; you never know where it's going to take you!"