It really was Bill's money; the promise had been passed. He had been guilty of a boyish impulse. This was his first scrape! He heard his mother say he must not be thoughtless again. “No,” said Tommy, firmly, “but--Let me tell you, Bill. My uncle gave this money to my mother before I was born--one hundred dollars in gold. She saved it for me.” He showed Bill what she had written. Bill held the package near the light and read slowly: “For Tommy's first scrape!” He looked at Tommy uncomfortably. “She died when I was born,” said Tommy, who wanted to tell Bill everything. “You can't use it,” said Bill, with decision. “Certainly I can.” “Not much; I won't take it!” “You'll have to,” said Tommy. Bill shook his head. “I'm sure,” said Tommy, seriously, “it's all right to use it for the work.” “If it was mine I wouldn't even open the package if it was to save me from jail,” said Bill. “Well, I will, to save myself from the insane-asylum,” said Tommy. He hesitated, then he opened the package with fingers that trembled slightly. There were ten gold eagles. Tommy counted out five and wrapped up the other five. “Here, Bill,” he said. “No!” shouted Bill. His face was flushed. He put his hands in his pockets determinedly, so he couldn't take the money. “There they are, on the table. Now lose them!” said Tommy, cuttingly. He walked out of Bill's room, put the package with the remaining fifty dollars in his trunk and locked it. He wished he might save the original coins. It struck him he might borrow the fifty dollars from Mr. Thompson and give the gold coins as collateral. A fine notion! But to carry it out he would have to explain. It was fully ten minutes before he went back to Bill's room. The coins were on the table. Tommy thought of a jest, of a scolding, of what he ought to say to Bill. In the end he said, very quietly: “Please put it away, Bill. And I'd like you to come with me. We'll go out for a trolley ride.” “All right,” said Bill. He hesitated, then as Tommy started to go out Bill put the money in his pocket-book and followed Tommy on tiptoe. The two boys went out of the house in silence. They boarded an open car at the corner, sat together, rode to the end of the line, rode back, walked to the house and entered--all in silence. They went into Bill's room. They had been sitting there fully five minutes when Bill suddenly said: “Say, Tommy?” “What?” “You know,” said Bill, timidly, “a kerosene-engine won't start cold.” “I know it,” said Tommy, who had read up on the subject just as he used to bone at college just before examinations. “I've a notion--” “Have you tried it?” asked Tommy, sternly business-like. “Not yet, but I dope it out that--” “Nothing on paper; no mouth inventing,” interrupted Tommy, firmly. “Practical experiments.” “You're right,” said Bill, with moody acquiescence. “I wish to heaven I didn't have to go to the shop. Some things can't be done by one man alone.” He looked at Tommy and hesitated.