"He hoped I'd have a good influence on you," said Stover, whose imagination had been too long confined.
Butsey rose wrathfully, but the answer he intended could not be made, for, reckoning on his host, he was already in his third frankfurter, and there was the Jigger Shop yet to be visited.
"Dink, if you ever have to tell the truth," he said, "it'll kill you. Come in and meet Mr. Laloo."
Mr. Laloo was leaning gratefully on the counter—as, indeed, he was always leaning against something—his legs crossed, lazily plying the afternoon toothpick.
"Laloo, shake hands with my friend, Mr. Stover," said Butsey White professionally. "Mr. Stover's heard about your hot dogs, way out in California."
Laloo transferred the toothpick and gave Stover his hand in a tired, unenthusiastic way.
"Well, now, they do be pretty good hot dogs," he drawled out. "Suppose you want one?" He looked at Stover in sleepy reproachfulness, and then slid around the counter in the shortest parabola possible.
"Pick him out a nice, young Pomeranian," said Butsey, peering into the steaming tin.
Laloo forked a frankfurter, selected a roll and looked expectantly at Stover.