“Not for me,” replied the Candy Butcher, as he put another piece of gum under the mustache. “Cut out the parties for Willie in the Summer an’ after this in the winter no more front parlor talks for me after ma is in bed an’ the old man is out in the cold switchin’ down in the railroad yard.”
“Sore again,” said the Concert Manager; “you’ve always got your kick comin’ on sumthin’.”
“Well, I wouldn’t,” said the Candy Butcher, “but you fellows is allus runnin’ me in when it comes to any girl talk. Say, I ain’t the masher of this outfit, take it from me. If I could do the look killin’ an’ have ’em runnin’ me like the boy what does the principal bareback—the popcorn and the soft drinks—well, no more for Jamesie.”
The gang sort of warmed up to this talk, so he let her out another notch and began.
“Say,” he continued, “youse fellows is allus lookin’ for sumthin’ soft. Well, say, I’ve got a game for this season that will kill ’em. No more kicks over the lemonade tub for me. I’ve got ’em all skinned on the sour juice game. Say, you may not know it, but it’s a losin’ game when you’r runnin’ to one-nighters and sellin’ lemon juice. It looks good to see me hollerin’ over the chunk of ice an’ takin’ in the half dimes while I’m passin’ out the cold drink an’ the peanuts; but, say, you never thought how many of them nicks it takes to buy a box of lemons. All right, all right in the city, bo’, for the yellow boys, but when you are run out in the meadows it’s diff’rent, diff’rent.
“So, says I, during the winter when I’m managin’ me penny arcade wid the talkin’ machines, says, ’ll get up a scheme that will make the lemons back to the shady groves for you, no more fore me. An’, say, I gits me think tank on it and I invents sumthin’. Say, you’ll laugh, but I pulled it off this afternoon, an’, say, they all fell for once.”
“What is it, Bill?” asked the Old Grafter, always ready for a new shot at the purse.
“‘What is it?’ Well, say! You know how them guys is stringin’ you about fake lemonade, ’cause you ain’t got no yellow slices floatin’ on the top of the tub. Well, what is you goin’ to do when lemons is 45 per, an’ even the barkeeps is usin’ the acid for the sour. Well, me, I just has a dozen lemon slices made out of celluloid, an’, say, Bill, you can’t tell ’em from the real, ’pon my word, boy, when they is floatin’ aroun’ in the tub after I has poured in me water, me citric acid and me sugar. Why, say, it looks like one of them things at a Fresh Air give-out, where everything is dun on the level, ’cause the reporters is watchin’. I jes’ works me celluloid slices on the stan’, an’ when biz is dun wipes ’em off, puts ’em in the box, an’ theyse jes’ as good as new, an’ there’s more comin’ to the Dime Savin’ for Will, an’ that’s no song book wit.”
The crowd eyed him in silence with that awe that meets a pack of undergraduates when they first gaze upon the man who discovered some new chemical analysis they never expect to understand.
The Saw Dust Spreader joined the crowd just then looking like a cheap leading man in a ten and twenty “Carmen,” with the red pants and the little coat. It was he for gossip, so he broke in.