“Well, let’s move on,” yawned Dickie. “Nothing doing here.”
“Wait!” The commodore had an idea. “Hi, you young grocery lad, back up a little, will you?”
“Wha’ for?” said the boy, aggressive at once. Babes are born in New York with chips on their shoulders.
“As a matter of trifling accommodation, that is all,” answered the commodore sweetly. “On the other side of you is a stately car and we would hold conversation with—”
“Aw, gwan! Guess I got as much right to the street as it has.” And as a display of his “rights,” he even touched up his horse a few inches, to intervene more thoroughly.
“Perhaps now for half a dollar—” began the commodore, more insinuatingly. Then he groaned: “Too late!” The policeman had lifted the ban. The stately car turned into the avenue and was swallowed up amid a myriad of more or less imposing vehicles. They had, however, received a bow from the occupant. That was all there had been opportunity for. Incidentally, the small boy had bestowed upon them his parting compliments:
“Smart old guy! You think youse—” The rest was jumbled up or lost in the usual cacophony of the thoroughfare.
“Too bad!” murmured the commodore. “But still these three weeks are young.”
“‘Three weeks!’” observed Dickie. “Sounds like plagiarism!”
“Oh, Bob won’t have that kind of a ‘three weeks,’” snickered Clarence.