“Um.…” said Scoop, thinking.
“You kin make a lot of money workin’ fur me,” the soap man put in, persuasive-like.
“Maybe,” said Scoop.
“It ain’t ordinary peddlin’,” the man went on. “It’s what I call artistic peddlin’. Yes, sir, an assistant beautifier must be an artist to be a success at his job. Absolutely. He’s got to have enough tact to sell somethin’ to a homely woman to make her beautiful without makin’ her feel that he knows that she’s homely an’ needs what she’s buyin’ from him. Doin’ a thing like that successfully is an art, just the same as paintin’ beautiful pictures an’ carvin’ statues. It’s a job that any boy kin be proud of. Fur it calls fur ability. An’, like I say, your profit is a dime out of every quarter.”
“Fifteen cents,” said Scoop, whose father is one of the shrewdest business men in Tutter.
“Ten cents,” said the soap man, scowling.
“Not enough,” said Scoop. He took my arm and started off. “Come on, gang,” he said. I tried to hold back, but he hissed in my ear to follow him and keep still. He had a scheme, he said. [[50]]
“Um.… Just wait a minute,” the soap man called after us.
We paused and looked back.
“Fifteen cents,” said Scoop.