"Sure not," slipped in Billy. "Why, I don't believe Samson makes a bit more than fifty per cent on everything he sells."
"You two think you're smart, don't you. He's a nice man, Mr. Samson is, and he spends an evening here quite often."
"He never spends anything else," said Billy.
"Cheap wit," flung back Hazel.
"Almost as cheap as Samson," tucked in Riley.
Hazel's eyes were beginning to sparkle, and Billy seized his opportunity. "Here, here, Riley, stop it! Don't you lemme hear you making any more slurs against Mr. Samson. He's a friend of mine, and——"
"Oh, you!" cried Hazel, instantly regaining her good humor. "You're as bad as Riley, every bit. But you almost did get a rise out of me. I don't like to hear my friends run down."
"I didn't mean it—anything," said Riley, with well-feigned humbleness. "I like Samson, I do, the poor old good-for-nothing lump of slumgullion."
Billy shook a sorrowful head. "Honest, Hazel, I'm ashamed of you, robbing the grave thataway."
"I don't believe he's much over sixty, Bill," said Riley.