"Oh, nothing. I was only thinking of something."
They walked on without further conversation. Dunstable's brain was working fast. He had an idea, and was busy developing it.
The manager of the Wrykyn Branch of Ring's Come-one Come-all Stores stood at the entrance to his shop on the following afternoon spitting with energy and precision on to the pavement—he was a free-born American citizen—and eyeing the High Street as a monarch might gaze at his kingdom. He had just completed a highly satisfactory report to headquarters, and was feeling contented with the universe, and the way in which it was managed. Even in the short time since the opening of the store he had managed to wake up the sluggish Britishers as if they had had an electric shock.
"We," he observed epigrammatically to a passing cat, which had stopped on its way to look at him, "are it."
As he spoke he perceived a youth coming towards him down the street. He wore a cap of divers colours, from which the manager argued that he belonged to the school. Evidently a devotee of the advertised "public-school" shillingsworth, and one who, as urged by the small bills, had come early to avoid the rush. "Step right in, mister," he said, moving aside from the doorway. "And what can I do for you?"
"Are you the manager of this place?" asked Dunstable—for the youth was that strategist, and no other.
"On the bull's eye first time," replied the manager with easy courtesy. "Will you take a cigar or a cocoa-nut?"
"Can I have a bit of a talk with you, if you aren't busy?"
"Sure. Step right in."