“Say, youse a winner, dat’s wot youse is; oin’t she, doc? Wot’s de noime?”
Constance held up to him the red and yellow covered tale. “The Cracksman’s Spoil, or Young Sleuth’s Double Artifice” she read out proudly.
“Ah, g’way! Dat oin’t no good. Say, dey didn’t do a t’ing to youse, did dey?”
“What do you mean?”
“Dey sold youse fresh, dat’s wot dey did. De Young Sleut books oin’t no good. Dey’s nuttin’ but a fake extry.”
“Oh, dear!” exclaimed Constance, crestfallenly. “It took me the whole afternoon to find it, but I did think it was what you wanted.”
“I was sceptical of your being able to get even an approach to newsboy literature, Miss Durant,” said Dr. Armstrong, “and so squandered the large sum of a dime myself. I think this is the genuine article, isn’t it?” he asked, as he handed to the boy a pamphlet labelled Old Sleuth on the Trail.
“Dat’s de real t’ing,” jubilantly acceded Swot. “Say, oin’t de women doisies for havin’ bases stole off ’em? Didn’t Ise give youse de warm tip to let de doc git it?”
“You should thank him for saving you from my stupid blunder,” answered the girl, artfully avoiding all possibility of personal obligation. “Would you like me to read it to you now?”
“Wouldn’t Ise, just!”