"Close your eyes and put out your hands," you tell Tom of a morning shortly later.
His lip twists. "It feels…wet?"
"Good Lord; Brute, no!" you say as your monkey calmly sets into Tom's open palms a dripping mass of chewed grass. You give the beast a gentle push away and apologize as you wipe Tom's hands with your kerchief. "A thousand pardons there; now close your eyes again."
"I'd just as soon keep them open," he says wryly.
"Fair enough."
His smile freezes as you extend the small leather pouch. There's a healthy portion of coin; not exactly making up for what he lost, but close to't.
"I can't possibly accept this," he breathes, looking through the pouch.