At eighteen minutes before three he was waving to them from the platform of the last car, having just slipped a two-dollar bill into Penrod's breast-pocket.

And, at seven minutes after three, Penrod opened the door of the largest "music store" in town.
A tall, exquisite, fair man, evidently a musical earl, stood before him, leaning whimsically upon a piano of the highest polish.

The sight abashed Penrod not a bit--his remarkable financial condition even made him rather peremptory.
"See here," he said brusquely: "I want to look at that big horn in the window." "Very well," said the earl; "look at it." And leaned more luxuriously upon the polished piano.
"I meant--" Penrod began, but paused, something daunted, while an unnamed fear brought greater mildness into his voice, as he continued, "I meant--I--How much IS that big horn ?" "How much ?" the earl repeated.
"I mean," said Penrod, "how much is it worth ?" "I don't know," the earl returned.

"Its price is eighty-five dollars." "Eighty-fi--" Penrod began mechanically, but was forced to pause and swallow a little air that obstructed his throat, as the difference between eighty-five and two became more and more startling.

He had entered the store, rich; in the last ten seconds he had become poverty-stricken.