"I can see you don't put in your telly time, Mr. Tracy. Slang goes in cycles these days. They simply don't dream up a whole new set of expressions every generation anymore because everybody gets tired of them so soon. Instead, older periods of idiom are revived. For instance, scram is coming back in."
He stopped long enough to look at her, frowning. "Scram?"
She took him in quizzically, estimating. "Possibly dust, or get lost, was the term when you were a boy."
Tracy chuckled wryly, "Thanks for the compliment, but I go back to the days of beat it."
In the inner office the Chief looked up at him. "Sit down, Frank. What's the word? Another exponent of free enterprise, pre-historic style?"
Frank Tracy found a chair and began talking even while fumbling for briar and tobacco pouch. "No," he grumbled. "I don't think so, not this time. I'm afraid there might be something more to it."
His boss leaned back in the massive old-fashioned chair he affected and patted his belly, as though appreciative of a good meal just finished. "Oh? Give it all to me."
Tracy finished lighting his pipe, flicked the match out and put it back in his pocket, noting that he'd have to get a new one one of these days. He cleared his throat and said, "Reports began coming in of house to house canvassers selling soap for three cents a bar."
"Three cents a bar? They can't manufacture it for that. Will the stuff pass the Health Department?"
"Evidently," Tracy said wryly. "The salesman claimed it's the same soap as reputable firms peddle."