Where Your Treasure Is. Holman Day
slowly, where there are so many dreams about the big world up in the attics under the patched coverlids—dreams which the little savings may bring to realization!
These were boys from my home town. Thank God, a lot of the cheap in me, the soul-dirt I had rubbed off in my associations, the cynical notions about right and wrong, the inclinations of a swaggering sport—yes, a whole lot of that slime was washed out of me right there and then by my new emotions. I don’t say I was made anyways clean—not all of it went. I have done many things since then to be ashamed of. But I was a blamed sight more of a man when I went up and patted those poor boys on their backs, standing between them.
“Don’t take on about it any more, fellows,” I said. “I guess I’ll be able to do something for you.” My tone was pretty important and they began to look me over; they had been so fussed up that they had not taken full stock of me till then.
“Golly! You’re rich, ain’t you?” gasped the older.
“Now about losing this money—where did you lose it?” I asked, swelling a little more because I knew I was in the way to make a big impression.
“Down the street there—where those fraud duflickers are all billed out! It looked like a zero—”
“And they charged three dollars apiece for feeling of our heads!” put in the younger. “There was a big man who cracked his fists—”
“Never mind! I know all about all such places, boys. I won’t allow any such things to be put across in this city on any friends of mine!”
I was talking as if I owned the town. They goggled at me as if they believed that I did own it. When I started back toward Dawlin’s joint they followed me like hounds at heel.
I flipped a lordly gesture at the girl in the ticket-office and walked in without paying—herding my clients ahead of me. That was visible evidence of my mysterious importance, and they looked up at me as if they were ready to fall down and offer worship. For in America any man who can walk past ticket-sellers and pay by a flip of the hand, displays a power which autocrats may envy.
“You are sure this is the place?” I asked the Sortwell boys.
They breathlessly assured me that it was.
“And there’s the man who made us pay him six dollars,” declared the older.
Professor Jewelle had stepped out through the slit in his curtains. I walked up to him.
“Did you charge these gentlemen six dollars—take the money from them?” I asked, sternly.
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