"And some of the time your back was turned," added the Watermelon. "You were probably cleaning up or looking for a whisk."
"Yes," admitted the barber again, still more reluctantly. "But nobody can bust into one of them cash registers, not without a noise that would be heard across the room."
"I'll bet he did," said the Watermelon. "Do you take me?"
"But they can't be busted," reiterated the barber.
"Then why the devil don't you bet?" demanded the Watermelon. "You are bettin' on a sure thing."
"Yes, go on. Don't be scared," encouraged Wilton's gay youth in joyful chorus.
The barber started for his precious register, but the Watermelon reached it first and laid his hand on it.
"Do you take me?" he asked. "You have to say that before you can count the change or the bet's—Say, is that the galoot?" he nodded suddenly toward the window and all turned quickly, instinctively, to look up the village street. The Watermelon hastily thrust a thin comb between the bell and the gong so it would not ring as he gently pressed the twenty-five cent key, registering another quarter, then he joined the others, pushing and struggling to see the man who did not pass, and gazed languidly over their heads.
"There ain't no one there," exclaimed the barber.
"He's passed out of sight," said the Watermelon, making a feeble attempt to see up the street. "He was almost by as I saw him."