“See here,” observed Fry, “I’m not giving information to the enemy. There they are, badly shaken up but they look meaty, don’t they? If you want to bid unsight unseen, name your figure.”
“Fifty tollars.”
“Take them.”
The salvage dealer toppled down the embankment with a greedy promptness. The claim agent winked blandly after him.
“I expected it,” said Fry, as a minute later Cohen came toiling up the embankment his face a void of disappointed misery.
“Mishter Fry, Mishter Fry,” he gasped, “dey are looking glasses!”
“Found that out, did you?” grinned the freight agent.
“Dey vos smashed, dey vas proken, every last one of dem. Dey are not even junk. My tear friend, I cannot take dem.”
“A bargain’s a bargain, Cohen,” voiced Fry smoothly. “You’ve made enough out of your deals with the road to stand by your bid. If you don’t, we’re no longer your customer.”
“I von’t have dem. It was a trick,” and the man went down the track tearing at his beard.