"Ajax ain't half as good as Ironclad," he announced.
Jimmy Toppan also had preferences.
"Have you seen those Chinese Aërial Bombs down at Johnson's? They're the biggest torpedoes you ever saw—each one as big as your fist! Gee! I'd like to hear one of 'em go off! They cost a cent apiece, an'—"
He stopped.
Somehow the conversation would get around to the subject of things costing a cent. It was most embarrassing. We had invested our capital for seventy years, and were already feeling the pinch.
The morning wore on, and though I observed both Ed and Jimmy to cast surreptitious glances toward the apple tree, there were no more references to the subject of cents.
In the afternoon I went over to Rob Currier's house, and found him engaged with the most fascinating weapon imaginable. It was a pop-gun made from a goose-quill. It shot small pieces of raw potato to a great distance, and did so with a loud and soul-satisfying pop.
His uncle had made it for him, said Rob.
He willingly let me experiment with it, but he was not interested to watch me very long.