“Don’t you be so fresh with your names, young man!” Lovey spoke up, tartly. “’Tain’t the first time I’ve seen you—”
“And I hope it won’t be the last,” Pyn laughed.
“That’ll depend on how polite ye’re able to make yerself.”
“Oh, you can count me in on politeness, old sport, so long as you come to the Down and Out.”
“I’ll go to the Down and Out when I see fit. I ain’t goin’ to be dragged there by the ’air of the ’ead, as I see you drag poor Rollins, the plumber, a month or two ago.”
“Quit your kiddin’, Lovey. How am I going to drag you by the ’air of the ’ead when you’re as bald as a door-knob? Say, you fellows,” he went on, pulling one of the levers before him, “I’m going to start you off right now with a glass of this hot chocolate. The treat’s on me. By the time you’ve swallowed it Milligan will be here, and I can get off long enough to take you over to Vandiver Street.” He dashed in a blob of whipped cream. “Here, old son, this is for you; and there’s more where it came from.”
“I didn’t come in ’ere for nothink of the kind,” Lovey protested. “I didn’t know we was comin’ in ’ere at all. You take it, sonny.”
“Go ahead, Lovikins,” Mr. Pyncheon insisted. “’E’s to ’ave a bigger one,” he mimicked. “Awful good for the ’air of the ’ead. ’Ll make it sprout like an apple-tree—I beg your pardon, happle-tree—in May.”
Before Pyncheon had finished, the primitive in poor Lovey had overcome both pride and reluctance, and the glass of chocolate was pretty well drained. The sight of his sheer animal avidity warned me not to betray myself. While Pyncheon explained to Milligan and made his preparations for conducting us, I carried my chocolate to the less important part of the shop, given up to the sale of tooth-brushes and patent medicines, to consume it at ease and with dignity.
Pyncheon having changed to a coat, in the buttonhole of which I noticed a little silver star, and a straw hat with a faint silver line in the hatband, we were ready to depart.