"Do we do business? Or don't we?"
Ted said, "How can you talk without opening your mouth?"
"Talk? Squirrels can't talk, you fool."
"Well, how can you make yourself heard, then?"
"Do you have to pry, Truesdale? You're getting a break, as it is. Do you have to know everything?"
Ted looked at his hands, and at the nutmeg tree. And back at the squirrel. A thirty-nine year old retired artist, sitting in the sun and talking to himself. What a jerk he was getting to be.
"Okay, I've been wrong before." The squirrel started for the tree.
"Wait!" Ted almost shouted.
From below, the blonde glanced his way, and he realized his voice had carried that far.