“We have a lot of old bottles in the basement,” she greeted him. “Does your company pay for them?”
“Sorry,” he declined. “We use only our own stamped bottles. There’s no deposit charge. Customers are expected to return them without rebate.”
The driver left a quart of milk on the back doorstep of the Parker home. In walking to his wagon, he paused beside Penny, remarking:
“Maybe you could sell your old bottles to a second-hand dealer. I saw one on the next street about five minutes ago.”
“Where?” Penny demanded, jumping to her feet.
“He was on Fulton Avenue when I drove past.”
Thanking the driver, Penny ran as fast as her stiff limbs would permit to the next street corner. Far up the avenue she saw a battered old car of the second-hand man. Hurrying on, she reached the automobile just as its owner came from a house carrying an armful of corded newspapers.
“Excuse me,” she called eagerly, “do you buy old bottles?”
The man turned toward her, doffing his derby hat.
“Good morning, Miss,” he said. “I buy newspapers, old furniture, rubber tires, copper, brass, or gold, but not bottles.”