"I clerk."
"What was the price of butter the last day you worked?" asked the inquisitor so quickly and sharply that the victim of the thrust actually turned pale, in spite of a strong front of bravado. But he made a brave enough effort to get over the hurdle.
"Twenty-nine cents."
"A pound?" asked Mr. Buckley.
"Yes," replied the prisoner.
"What did you sell butter at a loss for?" the inquisitor demanded. "It hasn't been down that low anywhere that I know of since the war."
"I meant butterine," "corrected" the "sweat subject" hurriedly.
"Well, you've hit it about right, by accident, of course. Now, let's see if you know anything more about grocery business. What did you sell eggs and potatoes for the last day you worked?"
"I didn't sell any."
"All you sold was butter?"