“We might walk, if it wasn’t for the bags,” mused Toby. “It can’t be more than eight or nine miles.”
“Eight or nine miles!” moaned Arnold. “And on an empty stomach!”
“We-ell, I meant on the railroad,” said Toby demurely, “but if you prefer——”
“Wish we had a pack of cards,” said Frank gloomily as they returned to their car. “We might have a three-handed game of something. Or get Billy Temple in here.”
“I’m going to finish that story I was reading,” said Toby. “You two play.”
“Well, if we can find some cards,” began Arnold, leading the way to their seats. Then: “What’s the matter with the chap over there, Toby? Nose-bleed?” he asked.
Toby, following his friend’s gaze, saw a pale-faced, large-eyed boy of perhaps fifteen holding a crimson-stained handkerchief to his face. “Guess so,” said Toby. “Maybe he got bumped. Wonder if he knows how to stop it?”
“Do you?” Arnold asked, pushing by to his seat.
“Yes, I know four or five ways. Guess I’ll ask him.”
He left the others and walked back three seats to where the boy was hunched somewhat disconsolately beside an open window. He was a surprisingly unattractive chap, Toby thought, but maybe he couldn’t help that unwholesome white complexion. But he could help, Toby told himself a moment later, that very soiled collar he was wearing!