Stepping back, I gave a critical eye to my finished work.
“Looks swell, doesn’t it?” says I, moving one jar a hair’s breadth.
“Say!... Did you hear what I said?”
“YES!” I boomed at him in the same thundering voice. “I HEARD WHAT YOU SAID. But what you say doesn’t amount to much. So, unless you want to buy some pickles, go outside in the sun and make a shadow.”
Here another auto came as far as the curb and stopped.
“What’s the meaning of this?” says Mr. Norman Pennykorn, coming into the store with a dark face. “Who gave you permission to move this nonsensical building onto our lot?”
I wasn’t going to let him bluff me.
“This is Mr. Weckler’s lot. And he told us that we could use it.”
“We need the lot for our cars.”
I asked him then why he didn’t park his cars on their own property across the street, which made him mad.