“Yes, but––”
“Where’s the holler?” insisted Stull.
“I ain’t hollerin’, am I? Only this here is new stuff to me––”
“Listen, Doc. I don’t know what it is, but all these here European kings is settin’ watchin’ one another like toms in a back alley. I think that some foreign political high-upper wants dope on what our people are finding out over here. Like this, he says to himself: ‘I hear this Kink is building ten sooper ferry boats. If that’s right, I oughta know. And I hear that the Queen of Marmora has ordered a million new nifty fifty-shot bean-shooters for the boy scouts! That is indeed serious news!’ So he goes to his broker, who goes to a big feller, who goes to Quint, who goes to us. Flag me?”
“Sure.”
“That’s all. There’s nothing to it, Doc. Says Quint to us: ‘Trim a few guys for me and get their letters,’ says Quint; ‘and there’s somethin’ in it for me and you!’ And that’s the new stuff, Doc.”
“You mean we’re spies?”
“Spies? I don’t know. We’re on a salary. We get a big bonus for every letter we find on the carpet––” He winked at Curfoot and relighted his cigar.
“Say,” said the latter, “it’s like a creeping joint. It’s a panel game, Ben––”
“It’s politics like they play ’em in Albany, only it’s ambassadors and kinks we trim, not corporations.”