“Why not make it a chip of the old blockhead?” I put in, which wasn’t very nice of me, I know, considering that the crack partly hit an old man. But, ding bust it, I’ve never been sorry to this day that I said it. For what that old cheat tried to do to us!
“THE SCOUNDREL!” CRIED MRS. O’MALLY, WHITE AND TREMBLING.
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“I’ll soak you for that,” flared smarty.
“Go ahead and soak,” I dared him.
The banker started off.
“Remember,” he shot at Mrs. O’Mally, “you have until to-morrow noon to come to our office and sign our contract. As for you, you young whippersnappers,” he turned on us, with eyes full of hatred, “I give you your orders now to drop this interference in our business affairs and move that Pickle Parlor of yours back in the alley where it came from.”
“Some Pickle Parlor!” smarty threw at us.
“Yes,” I shot back at him, “and I know a guy about your size who’ll have some hump on the end of his nose if you don’t hurry up and do the evaporating act.”
“Say, kid,” says he, swelling up like a fighting rooster, “let me whisper something to you: Every morning before breakfast I strangle six guys bigger’n you are just to get up an appetite.”