“Yay,” said Penrod with slight enthusiasm. “What you got?”
“Lickrish water.”
“Drinkin's!” demanded Penrod promptly. This is equivalent to the cry of “Biters” when an apple is shown, and establishes unquestionable title.
“Down to there!” stipulated Sam, removing his thumb to affix it firmly as a mark upon the side of the bottle a check upon gormandizing that remained carefully in place while Penrod drank.
This rite concluded, the visitor's eye fell upon the basket deposited by Della. He emitted tokens of pleasure.
“Looky! Looky! Looky there! That ain't any good pile o' stuff—oh, no!”
“What for?”
“Drug store!” shouted Sam. “We'll be partners——”
“Or else,” Penrod suggested, “I'll run the drug store and you be a customer——”
“No! Partners!” insisted Sam with such conviction that his host yielded; and within ten minutes the drug store was doing a heavy business with imaginary patrons. Improvising counters with boards and boxes, and setting forth a very druggish-looking stock from the basket, each of the partners found occupation to his taste—Penrod as salesman and Sam as prescription clerk.