“No; authors get your money first,” laughed Bob.
“Besides,” Tom continued, “that poster says fifty feet, and Jerry says it’s only thirty.”
“Poetic license again, Tommy,” said Nelson soothingly.
“It isn’t right, though,” was the stubborn response.
“Well, don’t you care, old chap; it isn’t your fault.”
“Hunger is driving Tommy into a frightful condition of pessimism,” said Bob.
“Wish I had a fried egg,” said Tom gloomily.
“Yes, all kind of golden on top and brownish around the edges,” supplemented Bob with a grin.
“Oh, cut it out,” sighed Nelson. “You’re making me have spasms inside. I suppose we might go and stand around the cook until he offered us something to eat to get rid of us, but it would be pretty low down.”
“Couldn’t be any lower down than I feel right now,” said Tom.