"Do you take me?" he asked, as they returned to the counter and the subject of the cash register. His hands were in his pockets and occasionally he jingled the keys.
"Aw, go on," urged Harry, who was a sport. "What are you afraid of?"
"He couldn't have picked it," insisted the barber, whose faith in his register was really sublime.
"Sure he could. They are easy to a guy who knows the ropes," declared the Watermelon. "The drummer was handing you a lot of hot air when he said they can't be picked. You don't want to be so easy."
The slur on his mental capacity was too much for the barber. His vanity rose in defense of his register where his faith had failed. "I have some brains," he snorted. "I know the thing is perfectly safe. Yes, I take you."
He started to open the register, but the Watermelon objected. "Here," he cried, "let Harry do it. I'm not wanting to be bunkoed out of me hard-earned lucre." And he lovingly rattled the keys in his pockets.
Harry and the others stepped forward.
"How much has been registered?" asked the Watermelon.
Harry drew forth the strip of paper and after a few moments of mental agony, confused by the different results each obtained as all peered eagerly over his shoulder, he finally arrived at the correct answer, three dollars and sixty cents. It was Sunday and shaving day for the male quarter of the population.
"Three, sixty," announced Harry in some trepidation, lest he be flatly and promptly corrected.