"I'd like to lend it to you, Charley, the worst ever, but I don't see
how I can. I got to save every cent this year for payments on the
house."

"Waffles nuthin'! I ain't goin' a-spend a cent till I got enough money
for a new baseball mitt!"

They were the things Rosie had been hearing all her life but never
until now had she grasped what they meant. Think of it, oh, think of
it--the heroic self-denial that masks itself in commonplaces like these!
Rosie wondered if the others, too, had their moments of weakness.
Weren't there perhaps times when George Riley sighed over the shabbiness
of his clothes, realizing that, if only he were a little sportier, Ellen
might not scorn him so utterly?

Theoretically practice makes easy, but Rosie found that the practice of
self-denial, instead of growing easier, became harder as time went by.
The week she had a dollar ninety-five in her bank, a Dog and Pony Show
pitched its tent in a field which Rosie had to pass every afternoon on
her paper route. She thought the sight of that tent would kill her
before the week was over. The only things talked about at school were
Skippo, the monkey that jumped the rope, Fifi, the dancing poodle, and
Don, the pony, who shook hands with people in the front row. Afternoon
admission was ten cents but, nevertheless, there were people who
attended daily.

Even Janet McFadden, valiant soul that she was, grew pale and wan under
the strain. "Of course, though, Rosie," she said, "you wouldn't have
time to go even if some one was to give you a ticket."

This was Friday, so Rosie was able to answer: "I could go tomorrow
afternoon, Janet. You know the Saturday matinee begins at two instead of
half-past three. That'd get it over by four. I could ask you or
somebody to get my papers for me and meet me at the tent at four
o'clock. Then I'd be only a few minutes late."

Janet made hopeless assent. "Yes, I could get them for you all right.
And if some one was to give me a ticket, Tom Sullivan would get them for
you--I know he would. Tom would do anything for you, Rosie."

Tom was Janet's red-haired cousin and a flame of Rosie's.

"Yes, Janet, I suppose Tom would. But there's no use talking about
it.... Now if only I could just take----"

Rosie broke off and Janet, understanding her thought, murmured hastily:
"No, no, Rosie! Of course you can't take any of that!"

Janet was right. Rosie could not possibly raid her own bank. Too many
eyes were upon her.