“I mean what I mean,” Shorty retorted doggedly, “an' you bet your sweet life I don't mean anything underhanded. Overhand's the only way to do it. You can't throw 'em any other way.”
“Throw what?”
“Eggs, prunes, baseballs, anything. But Wild Water, you're makin' a mistake. They ain't no crowd ever sat at the Opery House that'll stand for it. Just because she's a actress is no reason you can publicly lambaste her with hen-fruit.”
For the moment it seemed that Wild Water was going to burst or have apoplexy. He gulped down a mouthful of scalding coffee and slowly recovered himself.
“You're in wrong, Shorty,” he said with cold deliberation. “I'm not going to throw eggs at her. Why, man,” he cried, with growing excitement, “I want to give them eggs to her, on a platter, shirred—that's the way she likes 'em.”
“I knowed I was wrong,” Shorty cried generously, “I knowed you couldn't do a low-down trick like that.”
“That's all right, Shorty,” Wild Water forgave him. “But let's get down to business. You see why I want them eggs. I want 'em bad.”
“Do you want 'em ninety-six hundred an' twenty dollars' worth?” Shorty queried.
“It's a hold-up, that's what it is,” Wild Water declared irately.
“It's business,” Smoke retorted. “You don't think we're peddling eggs for our health, do you?”