Jim had thrust a hand into an empty pocket and replied regretfully: “I haven’t got it, Webb.”
“All right, kid. Don’t you worry. I ate good a while back. See you to-morrow.”
Now, staring at the unsullied sheet of note paper before him and tapping his teeth with the end of his fountain pen, Jim was wondering where and how he was to get two dollars and eighty cents to give to Webb in the morning. He was determined that all that was left of Clem’s twenty-two dollars should go back to him untouched. Webb ought to have more than the mere price of his fare, too. He seemed certain that he had only to reach Norwalk to find work, but he would have to have money for food to eat to-morrow and the part of the next at least. Four dollars wouldn’t be a cent too much. Jim went to his closet and looked over his none too ample wardrobe. Jim knew nothing of institutions that loaned money on personal property and allowed you the privilege of redeeming it; he was trying to decide whether his heavy winter overcoat which, if truth were told, was far heavier than it was warm, or the light-weight suit he had worn back to school in the fall could be best given up. Either one ought to sell for a good deal more than four dollars; but how much more he didn’t know. His movements dislodged the football from the shelf above and it dropped with a startling thud on his head. He picked it up and was looking it over appraisingly when the door opened and Clem entered.
Clem said “Hello,” glancing briefly from Jim’s face to the ball in his hands, and turned to his own closet to hang up his cap. If there was anything unaccustomed in his tone Jim didn’t notice it. He was thinking of what he had to say and wondering how Clem was going to take it. He walked back to the table, stared down at the waiting letter paper and, when Clem turned away from the closet, said: “I’m terribly sorry about what happened to-day, Clem.”
After a slight hesitation Clem replied: “Yes. Well, so am I, Jim.” It sounded as though he had tried to speak lightly, but he had only succeeded in sounding oddly stiff. Jim looked across inquiringly, but Clem had seated himself on his side of the table and was pulling over his books.
“I’m going to get what’s left of that money in the morning,” Jim continued, “and give it back to you. There’s only a little over sixteen dollars of it, though, and so I’m owing you eleven now. I’m going to write to dad and ask him to send me ten and take it out of my December and January allowances. Then—then I thought of another way, but I don’t know—I ain’t sure about that yet.”
“Don’t bother about it,” said Clem. “I don’t care a hang if you never pay it back.” He opened a book, propped his elbows and indicated that the subject was closed. Something in his voice and attitude puzzled Jim, and he jumped to a conclusion.
“I guess I know how you feel,” he said. “It—it isn’t very pleasant to find that the fellow you’re rooming with has a cousin—well, a sort of a cousin—who’s a—a thief. I sort of wish you hadn’t gone over there with me, Clem.”
Clem lifted his head and stared a moment. Then he laughed shortly. “Well, I can certainly believe that!” he said.
“What I mean is if you hadn’t known about Webb, about his being related to me, it wouldn’t have troubled you. But I’d sort of like you to believe that he ain’t—isn’t really bad, Clem. If you had known him five or six years ago—”