“Not on your life,” waggled Tom. “I know that the soap man is a spy. For if he isn’t, why should he be hiding in the old mill?”
I shrugged.
“Search me,” I said.
“His main reason for being in the neighborhood,” Tom went on, sure of himself, “isn’t to make women beautiful. Not so you can notice it! The spiel he gave us about his wonderful soap was bunk, and nothing else but. He can’t string me. For I know that it takes more than soap to drive away warts and things. His soap may be good, but it won’t do all of the wonderful things that he claims for it.”
Scoop grinned.
“We can find out how good the soap is by using it on Mrs. Kelly.”
“If it makes her beautiful,” I laughed, “we ought to get a dollar a cake for it.”
“Easy,” waggled Scoop, his eyes dancing.
He screwed up his forehead.
“Fellows, it doesn’t make any difference to us [[57]]whether the soap will make women beautiful or not. We’re going to peddle it just the same. For we’ve got to keep an eye on the soap peddler until we get word from Washington and know for sure that the talking frog drawings have been registered and that everything is safe for us. By working for mister spy as assistant beautifiers, we will be able to camp on his trail and no questions asked. See?”