Bob Templeton tucked a leg under him on the parapet of the bridge on which he was sitting, and with a look of gloomy disgust spread a number of coins, the contents of his trouser pocket, on the weather-beaten stone. "Eleven and ninepence," he said, dolefully. "That's all." Tom Eves, who had been leaning his elbows on the bridge, and watching the roach darting among the weeds in the clear running stream below, straightened himself, smiled, and, diving a hand into his pocket, gave a comical glance at the coins it returned with, and said: "Well, you beat me. I've got seven and fivepence halfpenny, and no chance of more for nearly a couple of months. We're sturdy beggars: under a pound between us." "You can't do much with a pound." "True, old sport, and still less with nineteen and twopence halfpenny. Might as well not count the halfpenny." "And there was so much I wanted to do. There's the levitator, and the smoke machine, and the perpetual pump--"