subway?”
“'Cause it costs a nickel, an' we ain't got no nickel,” said Cliff patiently.
“I just explained to you—”
“Listen, Herb, what's the sense of arguin'? I'm game to sneak under the turnstile if you are.”
“It
ain't
sneakin'.”
“O.K., it ain't. Just don't do it while the guy is watchin', that's all.”
“Tell you what,” said Herbie. “After we get home we mail a nickel apiece to the subway company. How's that?”
“Sure, sure. Let's get under the turnstile first.”
“Cinch,” said Herbie, and darted under the bar, followed by his cousin. The fat boy would have done well, however, to examine facts as closely as theory. “The guy” had a clear view of the boys as they took the plunge. A moment later he was thundering down on them. He was a tall, fat colored man with a badge.
“Whah you boys think you goin'?” he bellowed. They turned to flee. Cliff got away through the turnstile, but the man collared the clumsy Herbie and shook him, repeating his pointless question. The boy, weak with terror and short-winded due to the insertion of a big brown hand in a collar just large enough for his throat, gulped and stared. Seeing him trapped, his cousin came back.
“We're stuck, mister, that's all, an' we wanna go home,” Cliff cried. “We ain't crooks. We were gonna mail the company a coupla nickels as soon as we got home.”
“Yeah, that's right,” Herbie wheezed. The man released his grip on the collar, and the boy babbled the entire tale of their misadventure. The station master inspected the well-dressed lad curiously, and before the story was over he was hiding a cavernous smile behind his hand.
“So you gonna mail the company the nickels you owe us, hey?”
“So help me, mister, both of us.”
“You sure, now?”
Herbie kissed the little finger of his right hand and swept it skyward. He was actually swearing to the under side of Lexington Avenue rather than to heaven, but the colored man seemed satisfied. A train was sliding to a stop beside the platform.
“G'wan home, then,” he said, giving Herbie a friendly little push, “an' don't go treatin' gals with the subway's money no more.”
Next day Cliff duly mailed his nickel to “The Subway Company, New York.” Herbie begged five cents from his mother for a frankfurter and started out to mail it, but passed a delicatessen store and fell. As he devoured a steaming wienie with mustard and sauerkraut, he promised his uneasy conscience that he would pay the subway tomorrow. Walking home, he noticed black clouds gathering overhead. Just as he came to the entrance of his house an electric storm, the first of the year, broke with a thunderclap and a single sheet of lightning that seemed to split the sky. It appeared to Herbie that the heavens had opened and that God on his great white throne was peering down to earth, looking for Herbie Bookbinder. He scrambled up the stairs, shivering, and burst in upon Felicia, who was doing homework in her room.
“Fleece, gimme a nickel, please, please. You got money.”
“I should say not. What for?”
“I gotta have it. Pay you back a dime Saturday.”
“No.”
“Fifteen cents!”
“Tell me what it's for and you can have it for a dime.”
Crash! A great fork of lightning sundered the sky. Rain pelted the window.
“
Please
give it to me!”
Felicia regarded the white-faced boy for a moment. She raised her eyebrows.
“All right.”
The sister went to the kitchen and returned with a breadknife. She inserted the knife into the slot of her pig bank and tilted it carefully over her bed. Several coins slid out along the knife and fell noiselessly to the spread. Felicia picked up a nickel.
“You can pay it back whenever you want. Never mind telling me what it's for. Just pay me a nickel.”
“Thanks, Fleece.”
A few minutes later Herbie was stumbling through a gale to the mailbox. He deposited the letter and returned home drenched, but wonderfully relieved in spirit.
It
“'Cause it costs a nickel, an' we ain't got no nickel,” said Cliff patiently.
“I just explained to you—”
“Listen, Herb, what's the sense of arguin'? I'm game to sneak under the turnstile if you are.”
“It
ain't
sneakin'.”
“O.K., it ain't. Just don't do it while the guy is watchin', that's all.”
“Tell you what,” said Herbie. “After we get home we mail a nickel apiece to the subway company. How's that?”
“Sure, sure. Let's get under the turnstile first.”
“Cinch,” said Herbie, and darted under the bar, followed by his cousin. The fat boy would have done well, however, to examine facts as closely as theory. “The guy” had a clear view of the boys as they took the plunge. A moment later he was thundering down on them. He was a tall, fat colored man with a badge.
“Whah you boys think you goin'?” he bellowed. They turned to flee. Cliff got away through the turnstile, but the man collared the clumsy Herbie and shook him, repeating his pointless question. The boy, weak with terror and short-winded due to the insertion of a big brown hand in a collar just large enough for his throat, gulped and stared. Seeing him trapped, his cousin came back.
“We're stuck, mister, that's all, an' we wanna go home,” Cliff cried. “We ain't crooks. We were gonna mail the company a coupla nickels as soon as we got home.”
“Yeah, that's right,” Herbie wheezed. The man released his grip on the collar, and the boy babbled the entire tale of their misadventure. The station master inspected the well-dressed lad curiously, and before the story was over he was hiding a cavernous smile behind his hand.
“So you gonna mail the company the nickels you owe us, hey?”
“So help me, mister, both of us.”
“You sure, now?”
Herbie kissed the little finger of his right hand and swept it skyward. He was actually swearing to the under side of Lexington Avenue rather than to heaven, but the colored man seemed satisfied. A train was sliding to a stop beside the platform.
“G'wan home, then,” he said, giving Herbie a friendly little push, “an' don't go treatin' gals with the subway's money no more.”
Next day Cliff duly mailed his nickel to “The Subway Company, New York.” Herbie begged five cents from his mother for a frankfurter and started out to mail it, but passed a delicatessen store and fell. As he devoured a steaming wienie with mustard and sauerkraut, he promised his uneasy conscience that he would pay the subway tomorrow. Walking home, he noticed black clouds gathering overhead. Just as he came to the entrance of his house an electric storm, the first of the year, broke with a thunderclap and a single sheet of lightning that seemed to split the sky. It appeared to Herbie that the heavens had opened and that God on his great white throne was peering down to earth, looking for Herbie Bookbinder. He scrambled up the stairs, shivering, and burst in upon Felicia, who was doing homework in her room.
“Fleece, gimme a nickel, please, please. You got money.”
“I should say not. What for?”
“I gotta have it. Pay you back a dime Saturday.”
“No.”
“Fifteen cents!”
“Tell me what it's for and you can have it for a dime.”
Crash! A great fork of lightning sundered the sky. Rain pelted the window.
“
Please
give it to me!”
Felicia regarded the white-faced boy for a moment. She raised her eyebrows.
“All right.”
The sister went to the kitchen and returned with a breadknife. She inserted the knife into the slot of her pig bank and tilted it carefully over her bed. Several coins slid out along the knife and fell noiselessly to the spread. Felicia picked up a nickel.
“You can pay it back whenever you want. Never mind telling me what it's for. Just pay me a nickel.”
“Thanks, Fleece.”
A few minutes later Herbie was stumbling through a gale to the mailbox. He deposited the letter and returned home drenched, but wonderfully relieved in spirit.
It
Similar Books
