Mr. Conne tilted his cigar up in the corner of his mouth and looked at Skippy quizzically. “Now I might consider that job, kid,” he said, half smiling, “if you’ll promise to keep that smudge off your face when you come into my office. I notice it’s dirty—and so early in the morning!”
“Aw, that’s mud from yesterday—we put it on for the mosquitoes! Anyway, will you do one thing more, huh, Mr. Conne?”
“What?”
“Nickie’s promised to be awful good so will you go his probation ’cause any judge would do that for a feller if you went his probation—gee whiz!”
“I think the answer to that will be yes, kid. But suppose we get away from here now, eh? It’s getting a little too hot even for me. I haven’t had my breakfast and I suppose you kids haven’t either. We’ll stop at a nice lunch-wagon I noticed down on the highway and we’ll have fried eggs and....”
“Gee whiz, Mr. Conne!” Skippy interrupted. “If you’re gonna say we’ll have bacon, please don’t say it!”
“No? Why not?” Carlton Conne had started the car and was waiting, expectantly. “I thought all kids loved bacon.”
“Sure, we did,” Skippy answered. “Nickie an’ me loved it like you say, but not now. Let’s go an’ eat, huh?”
“Yeah,” Nickie said eagerly, “let’s scram. Sometime we’ll tell about that bacon, Mr. Conne.” Skippy nodded, took a long, last look at the burning house and turned to Mr. Conne. “It’s a sad story.”
“What is?” the detective asked.