“Michael Ayers.”

“Yes!” He made it emphatic. I thought, good for him, with two weeks’ wages up.

“Ferdinand Bowen.”

“No.”

“Edwin Robert Byron.”

“Yes.” That evened it up.

“Nicholas Cabot.”

“No.”

“Fillmore Collard.”

“Yes.” Wowie. Nine thousand berries. I paused because I had to look at him.