“You asked where you were to find this—this paragon of industry, Emerson. In response I say to you: Look! Behold! He is before you!”
“Eh?” faltered Russell. “You? You mean—”
“Who else? Here am I with most of my mornings wasted. Of course, I kick the jovial football into the empyrean, but there are other times for that. Besides, I am convinced that I shall never cause Charley Brickley to faint with envy! When Mart picked me to become a punter he picked a most acidulous lime! But that aside and, as it were, apart, Emerson. I have always had a sneaking desire to sell things over a counter, and here’s my opportunity. You wouldn’t want me to do it for nothing. Your pride would rebel. So I insist on a salary, a salary of, shall we say, ten cents a week.”
“You’re—you’re fooling,” said Russell dubiously.
“Nary a fool! Come on, do I get the job? Let me remind you, Emerson, that time is fleeting and my inner man cries for sustenance. Also, doubtless, Stan is pacing the room like a caged lion. If the salary asked is too steep, why, I’ll compromise. We’ll say five cents; but I won’t come down another nickel!”
“Why—why—” stammered Russell.
“Agreed then! I’m a wage-earner at last! I’ll drop around later and we’ll sign the contract. So long!”
And Jimmy waved gayly and sprinted for Lykes.