Not far from the Bayport police station was a fruit stand over which presided an Italian by the name of Rocco. He was a simple, genial soul, who believed almost everything he heard and, like most of his countrymen, he was of an excitable nature. Toward Rocco’s fruit stand the boys made their way. Rocco was sorting over his oranges when they approached. Tony, with the box under his arm, hung in the background, while Chet stepped boldly forward.

“How much are your oranges, Rocco?” he asked.

Rocco, with much explanatory waving of arms, recited the prices of the various grades of oranges.

“Too much. There’s a fellow at another fruit stand on the next street sells them a nickel a dozen cheaper.”