“Why, that machine you’re going to invent whereby you can grind up old oilcloth and automobile tires and make dill pickles of them.”
“I don’t vas got no machine like dot, Tom,” answered the delicatessen man in bewilderment. “I buy mine dill pickles by der barrel. Dem dill pickles grows, you can’t make ’em by no machine.”
“Oh! Then maybe it was a new sourkraut stamper,” went on Tom innocently.
“Oh, Tom, you vas joking chust like you alvays vas!” exclaimed Hans, a light breaking in on him. “Vell, I don’t care. You vas a pretty goot fellow anyhow,” and Hans smiled as broadly as ever.
“It sure is a touch of old times,” declared Songbird Powell. And then, unable to restrain himself, he burst out:
|
“From among the mountain tops
Where the brooklet flows,
There I love to linger long—” “Counting up my toes,” |
broke in Tom, with a twinkle in his merry eyes.
“Counting up my toes!” snorted Songbird. “Nothing of the kind! You always did knock my poetry endways, Tom. That last line was to read like this:
| “Where the sunset glows.” |