“Great Scott! You didn’t buy any, I hope?”
“Twenty-five; four dollars and thirty cents. Here they are.”
“Well, but, say, Joey, that’s pretty steep! Suppose he doesn’t buy any?”
“He will. He said he would. And the chap who sold these says we must have a wet sponge in the case to keep the cigars moist. So I got one. Also a five-cent glass dish to put it in. Run upstairs and get it wet, will you, while I arrange these?”
“All right. How much do those cigars sell for apiece, Joey?”
“The man said twenty-five cents, but I don’t suppose Mr. Adams pays that much at his club for them. I thought I’d ask him. We can sell them at twenty cents and still make a good profit.”
“Twenty-five cents!” murmured Jack. “Think of paying that much for one cigar! And they don’t look much, either.”
“You happen to be looking at the ten-centers,” laughed Joe. “The others are here.” He opened the lid of the flat box and revealed a row of greenish-black cigars quite different from the others in appearance and aroma. “I guess these are something extra, eh?”
“Must be, but I think anyone’s a chump to pay a quarter for a cigar,” responded Jack. “Where’s your old sponge?”
Business that evening was brisk and the seventy-five copies of the Recorder disappeared like magic and Jack had to hurry out on the sidewalk and buy extra copies from a newsboy. “Tomorrow we’ll get a hundred,” said Joe. “If we don’t sell them they can go back.” By closing time three dollars and thirty-four cents had been added to the amount in the box, swelling the total sales for the day to over fourteen dollars!