“But you’re going to send for some more, aren’t you?”
“Maybe,” replied Kid doubtfully. “I don’t know.”
“Oh, but you must! Why, just think how well you’ve done already! Mr. Folsom said you’d sold dozens and dozens of bottles or boxes or whatever it is, Kid! You keep that and when you get some more of it you can give me one. I do so want to help, Kid!”
To Kid’s credit, be it said, he refused the money. It pained him to do it, but he did. It had also pained him to be unable to get the quarter offered by the Doctor, in view of the fact that the Doctor was about to get him into a peck of trouble by writing home to his parents and commiserating with them on their sudden loss of fortune. Yes, Kid strongly wished that he had two more boxes of the tablets. But necessity is the mother of invention. Kid put his mind on the problem and by the time he had floundered through a history recitation—Mr. Folsom proving very gentle with him because of his troubles—he had evolved a plan.
“Say, Stanley,” he asked his roommate while that youth was brushing his hair for dinner, “did you like those tablets?”
Stanley viewed him coldly. “Like them! They’re punk!”
“Don’t you want your box, then?”
“I do not.”
“May I have it?”
“Yes, if you swallow them all,” replied Stanley venomously.