“Oh, forget it!” he exclaimed to one of the unfortunate who came seeking information. “You make me tired, Jim Fletcher, you and Ras Beebe and the whole gang. By cripes, a feller can't as much as take a five cent cigar out of his pocket without all hands tryin' to make a—a molehill out of it. Forget it, I tell you!”
Mr. Fletcher was a simple soul, decidedly not one of East Wellmouth's intellectual aristocracy, but he was persistent.
“Aw, hold on, Raish,” he expostulated, “I never said a word about your takin' a five cent cigar out of your pocket.... Er—er—you ain't taken one out, have you?”
“No, and I ain't goin' to—not now.”
“All right—all right. I never asked you. All I said was—”
“I know what you said.”
“Why, no, you don't neither. You're all mixed up. Nobody's said anything about cigars, or makin'—er—er—What was it you said they made?”
“Oh, nothin', nothin'. A molehill is what I said.”
“What kind of a hill?”
“A molehill. Didn't you ever hear of a ground mole, for heaven sakes?”