"Booker T.? Oh, sure! The brunette statue. And that other door—the one to the left. Where does that go?"
"Into Brander's storeroom. He sells mummies on de side."
"Does, eh? Curious business!" commented Simpkins. "Seems to rub it into you pretty hard. And stuck on himself! Don't seem able to spit without ringing his bell for some one to see him do it. Guess you'd have to have four legs to satisfy him, all right."
"Say, dat duck ain't on de level," the grievance for which Simpkins had been probing coming to the surface.
"Holds out on what he collects? Steals?"
"Sure t'ing—de loidies," and the boy lowered his voice; "he's dead stuck on Mrs. A."
"Oh! nonsense," commented Simpkins, an invitation to continue in his voice. "She's a married woman."
"Never min', I'm tellin' youse; an dat's just where de stink comes in. Ain't I seen 'im wid my own eyes a-makin' goo-goos at 'er. An' wasn't there rough house for fair goin' on in dere last mont', just before de Doc. made his get-away? He tumbled to somethin', all right, all right, or why don't he write her? Say, I don't expect him back in no hurry. He's hived up in South Dakote right now, an' she's in trainin' for alimony, or my name's Dennis Don'tknow."
"Does look sort of funny," Simpkins replied, sympathetic, but not too interested. "When was it Doc. left? Last week?"
"Last week, not; more'n a mont' ago, an' he ain't peeped since, for I've skinned every mail dat's come in, an' not a picture-postal, see?"