“‘Yes,’ says he.
“‘In all them rooms?’ says I.
“‘Yes,’ says he.
“‘Cost you a dollar a day apiece,’ says I. ‘makin’ a daily total of three dollars,’ says I.
“‘You undercharge, my friend,’ says he. ‘Never get rich that way. I shall have to take you in hand,’ says he, just like that, ‘and teach you how to set proper prices on your accommodations.’
“With that he moggs up-stairs—as cool as a cucumber. Bet he’s one of them millionaires.”
We all stood and listened to the clerk while he was getting off this talk, and then Catty and I went back to the store. We got there just in time, for Mr. Atkins was sneakin’ out of the back door with his fish-pole wrapped up in a newspaper—aiming to go and be shiftless for the rest of the day.
“Where you goin’, Dad?” says Catty, sober as a judge.
“Jest out,” says Mr. Atkins.
“You won’t need that fish-pole,” says Catty, “and you got to kalsomine Johnson’s kitchen this afternoon.”