“Hello, Jake!” says Mr. Spillane.
“Hello, Pat!” says the other man.
“Here’s a couple of kids, Jake. From Wicksville. Fat one’s the author of the telegram you got yesterday about Skip. Runs Smalley’s Bazar.”
“Goin’ to shut ’em up, Pat?”
“I was—but I’ve arranged differently.” Mr. Spillane turned and scowled at us. “This kid”—he stuck his thumb at Mark—“has argued me out of it. I’m going to give ’em a new line of credit.”
“Not feeling sick, are you? Better get more fresh air, Pat.”
“And,” says Mr. Spillane, just as if he hadn’t been interrupted, “you’re going to extend their credit, too.” He jerked his head at Mark. “Tell him about it, Tidd.”
Mark sailed in and told it all over again, while the fat man began to grin and grin. When Mark was done the fat man says:
“Looking for a job, Tidd?”
“N-no, sir,” says Mark. “Not till I get this Bazar off my hands.”