“What of it?” says he.
The man swallowed.
“What of it!” he boomed, his temper getting away from him more than ever. “Young man, we’ll take this nonsensical business of yours and crush it under our heel like an egg shell.”
“If you go stepping on us,” says Poppy, “you may find that we’re egg shells with hard-boiled centers. And instead of crushing us, you’re liable to skid and jar the kink out of your whiskers.”
Boy, oh, boy, was that man ever furious!
“You’ll pay for this insolence,” he further thundered.
“You bet your boots,” smarty bounced in. “You can’t monkey with us. For we’ve got money.”
“Money doesn’t count for much,” says Poppy, giving the kid a dig, “if you haven’t got brains to go with it.”
“Mrs. O’Mally’s a fool to sell her cucumbers to you kids. For she’ll never get her pay. You with your rotten pickles!” he turned up his nose at us. “A pig couldn’t eat ’em.”
“How do you know?” says I. “Are you the pig that tried?”