“My brother wrote he can’t.” Stubby said it over.
Mis’ Holcomb looked at me for just one minute. Then her thoughts took shape in her head, and out.
“How much money has Sodality got in the treasury?” she says to me.
“Forty-six cents,” says I, that’s treasurer and drove to death for a fund for us.
“How much is the fare to Wooster?”
“Three fifty-five each way,” says Stubby, ready, but hopeless.
“My land!” says Mis’ Holcomb, “they ain’t a woman in Sodality that can afford the seven dollars—nor a man in the town’ll see it like we do. And no time to raise nothing. And that poor woman off there....”
She stared out over the crowd, kind of wild.
The line was edging along up to the window, and still talking about it.
“...Elsie and Mame that I haven’t sent a thing to,” Mis’ Merriman was saying. “I just must get out and find something to-morrow, if it does get there late. But I’m sure I donno what....”