Fifteen per. Not much, is it?"
"How does he manage Continental travel on fifteen per?" Mount Dunstan
inquired.
"He's a typewriter and stenographer, and he dug up some extra jobs to do
at night. He's been working and saving two years to do this. We didn't
come over on one of the big liners with the Four Hundred, you can bet.
Took a cheap one, inside cabin, second class."
"By George!" said Mount Dunstan. "That was American."
The American eagle slightly flapped his wings. The young man pushed his
cap a trifle sideways this time, and flushed a little.
"Well, when an American wants anything he generally reaches out for it."
"Wasn't it rather--rash, considering the fifteen per?" Mount Dunstan
suggested. He was really beginning to enjoy himself.
"What's the use of making a dollar and sitting on it. I've not got
fifteen per--steady--and here I am."
Mount Dunstan knew his man, and looked at him with inquiring interest.
He was quite sure he would go on. This was a thing he had seen
before--an utter freedom from the insular grudging reserve, a sort of
occult perception of the presence of friendly sympathy, and an ingenuous
readiness to meet it half way. The youngster, having missed his
fellow-traveler, and probably feeling the lack of companionship in his
country rides, was in the mood for self-revelation.
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