When it was burned good I was just about to shove the others into my coat when all of a sudden something told me to open Quentin’s before I went home, but about that time Earl started yelling for me up front, so I put them away and went and waited on the damn redneck while he spent fifteen minutes deciding whether he wanted a twenty cent hame string or a thirty-five cent one.

“You’d better take that good one,” I says. “How do you fellows ever expect to get ahead, trying to work with cheap equipment?”

“If this one aint any good,” he says, “why have you got it on sale?”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t any good,” I says, “I said it’s not as good as that other one.”

“How do you know it’s not,” he says. “You ever use airy one of them?”

“Because they dont ask thirty-five cents for it,” I says. “That’s how I know it’s not as good.”