“Sure it can!” they all yelled.
“But how are you going to move the car?” some scout or other wanted to know.
“You leave that to me,” I told him. “What you’re supposed to do is to get the way cleared. You’re supposed to re—what d’you call it?—reconnoiter around Tony’s and read the bill of fare that’s pasted on the door, and jingle your money and kind of maybe smack your lips and look like the poor starving children in Europe. But don’t buy anything! If you were to buy anything, even a single cheese sandwich, you’d be—you’d be Benedict Arnold——”
“Did he eat cheese sandwiches?” one of the crowd wanted to know.
“He was a traitor!” I shouted at him. “I don’t know what he used to eat. Shut up.”
“He was in favor of Switzerland, he ate Swiss cheese sandwiches,” Brick Warner yelled.
“Will you shut up?” I hollered.
“It says in my History he swallowed his pride and wrote to Washington——”
“Some appetite!” one of those fellows from East Bridgeboro yelled.
“Now I don’t know what I was talking about,” I said.