But say, is youse goin' to
let me have dat quarter? I need it, honest I do. I ain't had nuttin'
t' eat in two days."
The man's tone was whining. Surely he seemed like a genuine tramp,
and Tom felt a little sorry for him. Besides, he felt that he owed
him something for the unceremonious manner in which he had knocked
the fellow down. Tom reached his hand in his pocket for some change,
taking care to keep the machine between himself and the tramp.
"Are youse goin' far on dat rig-a-ma-jig?" went on the man as he
looked carefully over the motor-cycle.
"To Albany," answered Tom, and the moment the words were out of his
mouth he wished he could recall them. All his suspicions regarding
the tramp came back to him. But the ragged chap appeared to attach
no significance to them.
"Albany? Dat's in Jersey, ain't it?" he asked.
"No, it's in New York," replied Tom, and then, to change the
subject, he pulled out a half-dollar and handed it to the man. As he
did so Tom noticed that the tramp had tattooed on the little finger
of his left hand a blue ring.
"Dat's de stuff! Youse is a reg'lar millionaire, youse is!"
exclaimed the tramp, and his manner seemed in earnest. "I'll
remember youse, I will. What's your name, anyhow, cully?"
"Tom Swift," replied our hero, and again he wished he had not told.
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