"It's silly to be dishonest," said Quinney, "because sooner or later a feller is found out."
"Honest fakes," murmured Tomlin. The contradiction in terms upset him.
"That's it. And my fakes are goin' to be advertised as the best in the world—really fine stuff, at a price which'll defy competition."
"You're an extraordinary man, Joe. There is something in it. Honest fakes!"
"Rub this in as vaseline, old man. If we can sell honest fakes cheap, we can sell the real Simon pure stuff at the top notch. Rich people don't haggle over a few extra pounds if they know that they're not being imposed upon. I'm going to offer to take back any bit I sell as genuine which may be pronounced doubtful by the experts."
Tomlin shook his head mournfully, having no exalted faith in experts. Also, he, was beginning to realize that Quinneys' as a sort of dumping-ground for his surplus and inferior wares was now under a high protective tariff. He growled out:
"If you think you know your own business——"
"Cocksure of it, old man!"
"I can only hope that Pride won't have a fall."
"You come with me and drink my daughter's health. Never saw such a kid in all my life—and not a month old!"