He looked at me kind of queer. "Umph!" he says; "maybe not!" And he walked away to attend to a customer.
That afternoon he took his car and went off on his reg'lar order trip to Denboro and Bayport and round. 'Dolph Cahoon and I was alone in the front part of the store. 'Dolph seemed to be in mighty good spirits—for him—and kept chucklin' to himself in a way I couldn't understand. At last he says to me, lookin' back to be sure that Mary Blaisdell, in the post-office department, couldn't hear—
"Cap'n Zeb," he says, "what would you give the feller that got the screen contract for you?"
"Give him?" I says. "What feller do you mean—Parkinson? I wouldn't give him a cent! I ain't a briber and I don't think he's a grafter."
"I don't mean Parkinson," he says, chucklin'. "But, suppose somebody else had been workin' for you on the quiet, what would you give him?"
I looked him over.
"Look here, 'Dolph," says I; "I never try to guess a riddle till I hear the whole of it. What are you drivin' at?"
He grinned. "I know who's goin' to get that contract," he says.
"You do. Who is it?"
"The Ostable Store's goin' to get it. Your bid's a little mite the lowest. Parkinson told me so last night."