“About one every two weeks is the limit,” says Bishop.
“I’ll bet it is,” I says. “And who are you workin’ for now?”
“The Western Film Corporation,” he says. “But I’m goin’ to quit ’em the first o’ the month.”
“What for?” I ast him.
“Better offer from the Criterion,” he says.
“Better’n ten thousand a year?” says I.
“Sure!” he says.
“Twenty dollars better?” I says.
He blushed and the Wife sunk my shin with a patent-leather torpedo. Then Bishop says:
“The raise I’m gettin’ would make twenty dollars look sick.”
“If you’d give it to me,” I says, “I’d try and nurse it back to health.”
After supper the Missus called me out in the kitchen to bawl me out.
“It’s rough stuff to embarrass a guest,” she says.
“He’s always embarrassed,” says I. “But you admit now, don’t you, that I was tellin’ the truth about him touchin’ me?”
“Yes,” she says.
“Well,” says I, “if he’s so soiled with money, why don’t he pay a little puny debt?”
“He’s probably forgot it,” says she.