The barber reached for the slip and added it on his own account. "Three, sixty," he agreed, and sighed.
"Count the cash," ordered the Watermelon, and Harry counted, slowly, carefully, laboriously, and the rest counted with him, more or less audibly.
When the last coin had been counted, there was a moment of puzzled silence. The Watermelon broke it.
"Three, thirty-five," said he. "What did I tell you?"
"Here," snapped the barber, "let me count it."
He pushed Harry aside and again all counted as the barber passed the coins. Quarters, dimes, nickels and pennies, the last one was lingeringly laid on the pile and the sum was lacking a quarter to make it complete according to the registered slip.
"Three dollars and thirty-five cents," said the Watermelon again, like the voice of doom.
"Well, I vum!" exclaimed Harry.
"How'd he do it?" asked the grocer's son, with an eye out for possibly similar emergencies nearer home.
The Watermelon shrugged. "I don't know," said he. "Can't do it myself, but the fellers in the cities have gotten so they can open 'em the minute the clerk turns his back. They can do it without any noise, too, and so quick you can't catch 'em. I'll be hanged if I know how they do it."