“Get the money.”
“No,” I said, “but I will get a collar.”
I entered a furnishing and tailor shop around the corner. I asked for the proprietor. He showed me collars.
“Two for a quarter?”
“Yes.”
“Now I have here a little brochure I sell for twenty-five cents. In fact it is a poem, well worth the money. I will let you have it for half price, that is, one collar.”
“We are selling collars.”
“I am selling the poem.”
I turned my Ancient Mariner eye on him. I recited the most mesmeric rhymes.
He repeated, “We are selling collars.”