“Funny little boxes, ain’t they, Wrenn, them cars! Quaint things. What is it they call ’em—carriages? First, second, third class….”
“Just like in books.”
“Booking-office. That’s tickets…. Funny, eh?”
Mr. Wrenn insisted on paying for both their high teas at the cheap restaurant, timidly but earnestly. Morton was troubled. As they sat on a park bench, smoking those most Anglican cigarettes, “Dainty Bits,” Mr. Wrenn begged:
“What’s the matter, old man?”
“Oh, nothing. Just thinking.” Morton smiled artificially. He added, presently: “Well, old Bill, got to make the break. Can’t go on living on you this way.”
“Aw, thunder! You ain’t living on me. Besides, I want you to. Honest I do. We can have a whole lot better time together, Morty.”
“Yes, but—Nope; I can’t do it. Nice of you. Can’t do it, though. Got to go on my own, like the fellow says.”
“Aw, come on. Look here; it’s my money, ain’t it? I got a right to spend it the way I want to, haven’t I? Aw, come on. We’ll bum along together, and then when the money is gone we’ll get some kind of job together. Honest, I want you to.”
“Hunka. Don’t believe you’d care for the kind of knockabout jobs I’ll have to get.”