over
Walnut Shade way, who scowled at him when leaving and gave him a dime.
He voiced a wish to exchange this for sweets with a certain madman in
the village who had no understanding of the value of his stock. His
mother demurred; not alone because candy was unwholesome, but because
the only right thing to do with money was to "save" it. And his mother
prevailed, even though his father coarsely suggested that all the candy
he could ever buy with Bunker money wouldn't hurt him none. The mother
said that this was "low," and the father retorted with equal lowness
that a rigid saving of all Bunker-given money wouldn't make no one a
"Croosus," neither, if you come down to _that_.

It resulted in his being told that he could play freely with his dime
one whole afternoon before the unexciting process of saving it began.
Well enough, that! He had grown too fearful of life to lose that coin
vulgarly out in the grass, as another would almost surely have done.

But he was beguiled in the mart of the money changers. To him, standing
safely within the front gate where nothing could burn him, fall upon
him, or chase him, "playing" respectfully with his new dime, came one of
slightly superior years and criminal instincts demanding to inspect the
treasure. The privilege was readily accorded, to arouse only contempt.
The piece was too small. The critic himself had a bigger one, and showed
it.

The two coins were held side by side. Bean was envious. The small coin
was of silver, the larger of copper, but he was no petty metallurgist.
He wanted to trade and said so. The newcomer assented with a large air
of benevolence, snatched the despised smaller coin and ran hastily
off--doubtless into a life of prosperous endeavour. And little Bean,
presently found by his mother crooning over a large copper cent, was
appalled by what followed. He had brought back "a bigger money," yet he
had done something infamous. It was the first gleam of an incapacity for
finance that was one day to become brilliant. He came to think money was
a pretty queer thing. People cheated it from you or took it away for
your own good. Anyhow, it was not a matter to bother about. You never
had it long enough.

Then there was language. Language was words, and politeness. Certain
phrases had to be mouthed to strangers, designed to imply a respect he
was generally far from feeling. This was bad enough, but what was worse
was that you couldn't use just any word you might h