"Oh, okay," the girl said listlessly. She accepted the bag and returned to Marc and Toffee. "Whatta pest," she said. "All day all he does is hold me up, that's all, just hold me up. I get tired of it."
"Doesn't the manager mind this sort of thing?" Marc asked.
"Geez, no," the girl said. "The manager don't mind anything any more. Why should he? He'll cork off just as fast as the janitor when the bombs drop."
At this juncture the thug stepped from behind the glove display, waving his gun excitedly.
"This is a stickup!" he announced.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," the girl murmured. "What else?"
"Go on an' scream," the bandit said in a lower tone. "You said you would. You promised."
"So okay," the girl agreed. She turned to Marc and Toffee. "You see how it is—borin'." Then she threw back her head and gave vent to a shriek that echoed back from the high ceiling with all the painful discord of a trainload of jealous opera stars going through an underpass in full voice. When it was over she leaned back on the counter and stifled a yawn. "So was it okay?" she asked.
"Not bad," the bandit said admiringly. "Now hand over the dough and git down on the floor!"
"Aw, have a heart," the girl said. "I've been down on the floor so much today I'm beginning to feel like a dust mop." She nodded to Marc and Toffee. "Make them get down on the floor for a change."