Sam mechanically dug a hand into his pocket. “I—I’ve only some change, Poke. How much do you need? And what do you need it for?”
Poke groaned as soulfully as Mr. Haskins had groaned. “Oh, but you always have money, Sam!” he urged. “Look and make sure!”
Sam’s hand came out of his pocket. It held a half-dollar, a dime, and a few pennies.
“There’s my cash,” he said. “Count it for yourself.”
Poke was a picture of despondency. “’Tisn’t enough—it can’t be enough. I’ve got to have some dollars, anyway.”
“What for?” Sam asked curiously.
Poke clutched his arm. “You know the fix I’m in—about debts, I mean? I owe all you fellows.”
“Nonsense!” said Sam sharply. “We’ve told you over and over again to forget it.”
There were times when the plump Poke could assume an air of melancholy dignity. He had it now, as he said:
“I can’t forget it. You wouldn’t, and couldn’t, if you were in my shoes.”