“Aye—Micky!” shrilled a voice from up a side street. “Wait up.”
McBride glanced that way impatiently. Harry Ritter, stout, round-faced and indolent, was approaching at his usual lazy stroll.
“Can’t, Rit, I’m late,” he called without pausing.
Whereupon, with a grunt, Ritter speeded up and caught McBride about the middle of the next block. “I don’t see what’s your rush,” he complained, puffing a little. “It isn’t half-past eight yet.”
“I know it, but I’ve got to fix Mrs. Wright’s furnace and carry out some ashes before school.”
Ritter sniffed. “You still doing that?” he inquired disparagingly. “You are an easy mark. I’ll bet you don’t get a cent for it.”
“Of course I don’t, you mercenary young pup,” retorted Micky. “I’m not doing it for money. When Jim was drafted, I said I’d look after her chores ’till he came back. You’re a hot scout, you are!”
“Shucks! When I work, I want something out of it, especially with the troop needing money like we do.”
Micky chuckled. “When you work!” he repeated with emphasis. “That’s a good one. Just let me know when you’re going to start, and I’ll come around and look on. It would be a real treat to see you exerting yourself for once.”
“You go to grass! I’ll bet I’ve turned in as much money to the fund as anybody.”