“And they say Chip Macklin is doing pretty well, too,” put in Buster, referring to a small lad who had once been a toady to Gus Plum, the Hall bully.
“Well, Plum is doing well,” returned Dave. “I’m glad he reformed. Evidently there was much better stuff in him than there was in Jasniff and Merwell.”
“Oh, Jasniff and Merwell were thoroughly bad eggs,” announced Luke. “I’ll never forget, Dave, how Jasniff once tried to brain you with an Indian club.”
“Say, speaking about bad eggs, puts me in mind of another story,” cried Shadow. “A lady went into a store and asked the store-keeper’s clerk how much the eggs were. The clerk––Now don’t interrupt me, because this isn’t a very long story,” pleaded the would-be story teller. “The clerk was only a small boy, and he hadn’t been in the business very long, so he told the lady, ‘The really fresh eggs are fifty cents, and the almost fresh eggs are forty cents, and those that ain’t so fresh are thirty-five cents, and the rotten eggs are thirty cents.’”
“Oh, Shadow! what a story!”
“Haven’t you got any fresher than that?”
“You can’t make anybody believe any such yarn as that.”
“That story is absolutely true,” returned the story teller, soberly. “If you don’t believe it, you come down to the town of Necopopec, Maine, and on the principal street of the town I’ll show you the town pump where that boy used to get a drink three times a day,” and at this sally there was a general laugh.
At last the train rolled into the Grand Central Terminal at Forty-Second Street, New York City, and, alighting, the lads made their way through the spacious depot to the crowded thoroughfare beyond. Here taxicabs were numerous, and the youths piled into one, leaving the driver to look 199 after their suit-cases. Dave’s trunk had been checked through to Washington.