"I got something to show you
there. You know the shop, o' course?"
No; Mr. Queed was obliged to admit that he did not.
"I'm manager for Stark's," said Klinker, trying not to appear boastful.
"Cigars, mineral waters, and periodicals. And a great rondy-vooze for
the sporting men, politicians, and rounders of the town, if I do say it.
I've seen you hit by the window many's the time, only your head was so
full of studies you never noticed."
"Thank you, I have no time this evening, I fear--"
"Time? It won't take any--it's right the end of this block. You can't do
any studyin' before supper-time, anyhow, because it's near that now. I
got something for you there."
They turned into Stark's, a brilliantly-lit and prettily appointed
little shop with a big soda-water plant at the front. To a white-coated
boy who lounged upon the fount, Klinker spoke winged words, and the next
moment Queed found himself drinking a foaming, tingling, hair-trigger
concoction under orders to put it all down at a gulp.
They were seated upon a bench of oak and leather upholstery, with an
enormous mirror reproducing their back views to all who cared to see.
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