"Fond of tomatoes?" enquired Ravenslee.
"Aw!" answered his neighbour, "quit foolin'—talk sense!"
"Certainly! Why do you follow me, Soapy?"
Soapy's eyes grew narrower, and the pendent cigarette stirred slightly.
"Know me, hey?" he enquired.
"Heaven forbid! 'T was a bolt at a venture—a shot in the dark."
"Talkin'—o'—shootin'," said Soapy, grimly deliberate, "peanuts ain't a healthy profesh around here—not fer your kind, it ain't!"
"Oh, I don't know," answered Ravenslee, shaking his head gently at the tomatoes, "I've heard of professions even more unhealthy."
"Aw—well—say what?"
"Well, talking of shooting—yours!"