The subject of the uncomplimentary remarks had watched them amusedly as long as they were in sight. Outraged dignity spoke eloquently from Jimmy Townsend’s back. When the two boys were hidden by the throng about the gate the stranger chuckled softly, took up his bag again and moved toward a ticket window. He had a long, easy stride, and the upper part of his body, in spite of the heavy kit-bag he carried, swung freely, giving the idea that he was used to much walking and in less crowded spaces.
“One of your very best tickets to Greenbank, please,” he said to the man behind the window.
“Any special Greenbank?” asked the latter, faintly sarcastic.
“Which one would you advise?”
The man shot an appraising look at the boy, smiled, pulled a slip of cardboard from a rack, stamped it and pushed it across the ledge. “Two-sixty-eight, please.”
“Thank you. You think I’ll like this one?”
“If you don’t, bring it back and I’ll change it.”
“That’s fair. Good-morning.”
At the news-stand he selected two magazines, paid for them and then glanced at the clock. Twenty minutes past eleven exactly. He drew a watch from his pocket and compared it with the clock. “Is that clock about right?” he asked the youth behind the counter.
“Just right,” was the crisp reply.