"No, Willy. You've got it all wrong. I still know it, I just didn't know I know it."
"Aw, Freddy," Willy said unhappily. "You're pullin' my leg again!"
"Suit yourself," Freddy smiled. "Hold down the bench for me, O.K.? I'll be right back."
Willy watched Freddy until he went into the little brick building in the center of the park, and then grabbed Freddy's newspaper and scampered over to Oscar's bench.
"Hey, you know how Freddy's always talkin' big about how much he knows," Willy said breathlessly. "I got an idea how to call his bluff. He filled out one of these tests and says he knows all the answers. Let's send it in and see if he's as smart as he says!"
"Yeh! That's great, Willy!" Then Oscar's face darkened. "Wonder where we can steal a stamp?"
"That was a pretty good idea of mine, about advertising in the paper, wasn't it, Mr. Jones?" Dwindle, America's Number One Personnel Specialist, asked his surly assistant.
"Yes, Dwindle."
Jones stared gloomily out the fourteenth story window into the park, where the local bums were loafing and sleeping and feeding peanuts to the pigeons. He was nauseated with the prospect of having to address his new boss as "Mr. Dwindle," and was toying with the idea of abandoning his specialty completely to join the ranks of the happy, carefree unemployed. He watched as two uniformed policemen approached one of the less wholesome-appearing characters.