“Why—why, you’re paying some, maybe,” faltered Small. “But you haven’t any more say about it than the rest of us.”
“I guess if that mug’s ever made it’ll be my money that pays for it,” replied Kid calmly. “The rest of you fellows haven’t any more idea of earning money than—than—than nothing at all! I’m the only one that will have any when the time comes and I guess I’ll have to pretty much foot the whole bill.”
Small laughed again, quite insultingly this time. “Gee, you hate yourself, don’t you, Kid? To hear you talk anybody’d think you were a John D. Rockefeller—until he thought again! I’ll bet I’ll have more money than you, Kid!”
Kid smiled patiently. “Piffle! A couple of piffles! You wait and see, Small; that’s all I ask you to do; just wait and see! I may not be any John D. Rockefeller, son, but I’ve got more business head than you ever thought of having.”
“Huh! You! Give me my drawing! You make me tired, you do!” Small was plainly incensed and Kid suddenly recalled the fact that it wouldn’t do to have Small angry if he was to be asked to purchase a box of the celebrated Tinkham’s Throat-Ease.
“Well, you needn’t get huffy,” said Kid. “I didn’t say anything, did I?”
“Yes, you did! You said this looked like a water pitcher!”
“Well, aren’t water pitchers all right, Small? Can’t there be—be beauty in a water pitcher? I didn’t say I didn’t like your drawing, did I?”
“You said maybe you’d have it changed, didn’t you?”
“Can’t you take a joke? Gee, you’re getting touchy! I guess it’s the artistic temper in you, Small. Artists are always touchy. I didn’t say I didn’t like it. I couldn’t say that, because I do like it—awfully.”