"Go to it, sis—gimme a shine like a wind-shield."
She rested his four heavy fingers lightly in her palm.
"You really don't need a manicure, Mr. Barker; your hands keep the shine better than most."
"Well, I'll be hanged—tryin' to learn your Uncle Fuller when to have his own hands polished! Can you beat it?" Mr. Barker's steel-blue shaved face widened to a broad grin. "Say, you're a goil after my own heart—a regular little sixty-horse-power queen."
"I wasn't born yesterday, Mr. Barker."
"I know you wasn't, but you can't bluff me off, kiddo. You don't need to give me no high-power shine if you don't want to, but I've got one dollar and forty minutes' worth of your time cornered, just the samey."
Miss Sprunt dipped his hands into tepid water.
"I knew what I said would not frighten you off, Mr. Barker. I wouldn't have said it if I thought it would."
Mr. Barker guffawed with gusto.
"Can you beat the wimmin?" he cried. "Can you beat the wimmin?"