“Say, who’s talking about not eating? I don’t want the old man’s face as an appetizer,” protested Kelly.
“Gee, he has got you bluffed. You are scared of him.”
The bookkeeper shrugged his big shoulders and laughed. “Not on your life am I afraid of that old spider, but I don’t like him. That’s all.”
“The old man is a good enough scout when you know how to handle him,” boasted Mr. Jones. “Tell him where to get off once in awhile and he’ll eat out of your hand.”
“Say,” chuckled Kelly. “The next time you decide to call him down, put me wise. I don’t want to miss it.”
“Quit your kidding and come on. You think that I am shooting hot air. I’ll show you some day.”
Their hasty luncheon was completed when the strains of music heralding the return of the minstrel show hurried them forth to the curb to procure suitable places to watch the parade.
“Kelly, look at the pickaninnies in the automobile following the band,” exclaimed Mr. Jones, greatly interested. “That’s something new. I never saw it before.” Thus he confirmed originality from the wealth of his own knowledge.
“What’s the white girl doing there?” Kelly sought information at the fountain of wisdom.
The sagacious Mr. Jones was puzzled, but for an instant only. He elucidated. “They have a white manager and that’s his wife who won’t black up.”