Poppy isn’t the kind of a kid to lay down like a door mat and let other people walk all over him. I guess not. So you can imagine how sore he was over the holdup.
“And suppose we want to dance a jig in front of your skating rink,” says he, sort of sarcastic-like. “Does that cost us another five dollars?”
“Um ...” came in continued craftiness. “How much money you got, anyway?”
“None of your business.”
But old Goliath found nothing in that to scowl over. Instead, he sort of grinned to himself, cat fashion, as though everything was nice and cozy in the back part of his mind.
“Um ...” says he, digging puzzled-like at his hair, which hadn’t seen a barber in sixteen months. “What day did you say this was?”
“Tuesday,” says Poppy innocently.
“Do tell!” the shaggy eyebrows lifted. “Tuesday, you say. An’ I sort of had an idear in my head it was Monday. Almost let two dollars git away from me that time. You see,” came the further drawl, and the big boy kind of leaned heavily on us now, “fur small cars like this ’un, we charge five dollars on Monday, but on Tuesday it’s seven dollars.”
Poppy promptly turned on the gas.
“Good-by,” says he, “we’ll be back on the thirty-second of the month.”