"What do you mean, boy?" I asked back into the phone. "Gag? What kind
of gag? What are you talking about?"
"A coin. A coin." He was impatient. "You remember you sent me a coin in
the mail?"
"Oh, yeah, that," I pretended to remember. "Look, you're an important
research analyst on metals--too damned important to keep in touch
with your old friends--so I thought I'd make a bid for your attention
thataway."
"All right, give," he said in a low voice. "Where did you get it?" He
was serious.
"Come off it, Jim. Are you practicing to be a stuffed shirt? I admit
it's a rib. Something Star dropped the other day. A manufacturer's idea
of kid advertising, no doubt."
"I'm in dead earnest, Peter," he answered. "It's no advertising gadget."
"It means something?"
In college, Jim could take a practical joke and make six out of it.
"I don't know what it means. Where did Star get it?" He was being
pretty crisp about it.
"Oh, I don't know," I said. I was getting a little fed up; the joke
wasn't going according to plan. "Never asked her. You know how kids
clutter up the place with their things. No father even tries to keep
track of all the junk that can be bought with three box tops and a
dime."
"This was not bought with three box tops and a dime," he spaced his
words evenly. "This was not bought anywhere, for any price. In fact, if
you want to be logical about it, this coin doesn't exist at all."