“We’ve got six sorts there,” laughed Joe, “and it seems we haven’t the right ones yet. Ole says we ought to keep Scimitars.”
Walter sniffed. “Huh, they ain’t no good. Punk! Beauties is the brand for you. Got any novels?”
“Novels? No. Just magazines.”
“I mean nickel novels. ‘Dick Dashaway’ and ‘Bull’s-Eye Bob’ and them. Ain’t you goin’ to have none o’ them?”
“I think not,” replied Joe drily. “You see, if we kept them we might not attend to business we’d be so busy reading them.”
The irony was lost on Walter, however. “That’s so. They’re swell novels, take it from me. There’s one of ’em—Oh, gee, there’s a guy wants to be dropped!” And Walter disgustedly returned to his car, slammed the door and shot upward.
“What time is it?” asked Jack. “My watch has stopped.”
“Nearly half-past four,” replied Joe. “I wonder who will be our first customer.”
“Maybe there won’t be one! Say, we’ve forgotten the money box.”