“Haven’t any idea how it was done or why. I got here in the morning and there she was. What makes you think it was a deflected bullet?”
“Because it was whirling end-over. Normally, a bullet bores a pretty clean hole in plate glass.”
“That’s so, too,” agreed the man with some interest.
Average Jones handed a cigar to Waldemar and lighted one himself. Puffing at it as he walked to the door, he gazed casually around and finally centered his attention on a telegraph pole standing on the edge of the sidewalk. He even walked out and around the pole. Returning, he remarked to the tobacconist:
“Very good cigars, these. Ever advertise ’em?”
“Sure.” The man displayed a tin square vaunting the virtues of his “Camarados.”
“Outside the shop, I meant. Why wouldn’t one of those signs look good on that telegraph pole?”
“It would look good to me,” said the vendor, “but it wouldn’t look good to the telegraph people. They’d have it down.”
“Oh, I don’t know. Give me one, lend me a ladder, and I’ll make the experiment.”
The tobacconist stared. “All right,” he said. “Go as far as you like.” And he got the required articles for his customer.