“I suppose you get mail in Greenhaven? Well, I’ll drop you a line some day soon and tell you when I’ll be along next. Let me see, what’s your name?”
“Tucker, sir; T. Tucker.”
“T? For Thomas?”
“N-no, sir; for Tobias; Toby for short.”
“I see! Toby Tucker, Greenhaven, Long Island.” Mr. Whitney set the address down in a memorandum book. “All right, Toby, you’ll hear from me.” He replaced the little book in a vest pocket and pulled out a wallet. “Now, we’ll settle up for the present trip and start fair the next time.” He took a five-dollar bill from the purse and handed it across.
“I—I can’t change that, sir,” said Toby. “You can let it go until next time.”
“I don’t want you to change it, Toby. I guess five isn’t too much for that breakfast and this trip. It’s worth it to me, anyway.”
“There isn’t any charge for breakfast,” Toby protested.
“Well, then, we’ll call it a bonus on the contract. Stick it in your pocket, young fellow, and don’t look as if it was poison.”
“But it’s a lot more than it ought to be,” stammered Toby.