“Excuse me, Mishter Fry, but that salvage--”
Ralph burst out into a hearty peal of laughter. Clinging to the little bobtail tender of the dummy was Ready-Cash Cohen.
“Well, you’re a good one, Cohen.”
“If I vas’nt, vould I be Chonny-on-de-spot, Mishter Fry?” chuckled Cohen cunningly.
He followed them as they walked down the tracks. When they reached the point where the two freights had gone over the embankment, Fry clambered down its slant and for some time poked about the tangled mass of wreckage below.
“Vill dere haf to be an appraisal, my tear friend?” anxiously inquired Cohen, pressing forward as the claim agent reappeared.
“No,” responded Fry shortly. “There’s a chicken car with live and dead mixed up in the tangle. Come, Cohen, how much for the lot?”
“Schickens?” repeated Cohen disgustedly--“not in my line, Mishter Fry. Schickens are an expense. Dey need feeding.”
“Won’t bid, eh?”
“Don’t vant dem at any price. But de boxes, Mishter Fry--vot’s in dose boxes?”