“What fun!” thought the bowman.
“Needn’t mind, sir. I can come down for it ’most any time.”
“I have no change, Rose,” said her father. “How much is it? Oh, a dollar, I think I said. Come down to-morrow, and ask the cook now to give you some tobacco.”
“Thank you, sir, I doesn’t smoke—at present,” he added to himself.
“Stop, papa!” cried Rose. “It is absurd to bring this poor fellow all the way back for a dollar. I have my portemonnaie.” So saying, she searched it in the dark.
“Have you got it? Hurry, Rose. You will take cold. Bother the child. How persistent you are!”
Her fingers encountered only a bundle of notes of amounts not to be known in the gloom, and then, in a pocket apart, a little gold dollar—a luck-penny, kept for its rarity. She hesitated, but, being chilly and in haste, said, “Here is a dollar, my man. It is one of our old-fashioned gold dollars; but it is all right. I am very much obliged to you. If I want you again, can you come?”
“Maybe, ma’am. Depends on the lumber-boss.”
“Well, good night.”
“Good night, ma’am.”