Jake could only collect one and avoid the other by being very sure that
Jimmy Holden remained grateful to Jake for Jake's shelter and protection.

He laughed roughly. "All right, Jimmy," he said. "You lift it and you can
have it."

Jimmy struggled with the typewriter, and succeeded only because it was a
new one made of the titanium-magnesium-aluminum alloys. It hung between
his little knees, almost--but not quite--touching the ground.

"You have it," said Jake. He lifted it lightly and carried it into the
boy's little bedroom.

Jimmy started after dinner. He picked out the letters with the same
painful search he'd used in typing his getaway letter. He made the
same mistakes he'd made before. It had taken him almost an hour and
nearly fifty sheets of paper to compose that first note without an
error; that was no way to run a railroad; now Jimmy was determined
to learn the proper operation of this machine. But finally the jagged
tack-tack--pause--tack-tack got on Jake's nerves.

Jake came in angrily. "You're wasting paper," he snapped. He eyed Jimmy
thoughtfully. "How come with your education you don't know how to type?"

"My father wouldn't let me."

"Seems your father wouldn't let you do anything."

"He said that I couldn't learn until I was old enough to learn properly.