“Barney,” his mother cried, “if you talk so to yer elders, I ’ll box yer ears.”
He turned to her impatiently. “Aw, hol’ on a shake, mom. I ’m talkin’ bus’ness. We c’n square this whole blame thing with a little plant.”
The puzzled Cooney asked: “What kind av a plant?”
“A rubber plant,” Barney answered cockily. “Gum shoe. The kind they grow down at the office. Leave it to me. I ’ll show y’ a sample to-morrah.” He held out his plate to Annie. “Gi’ me another cake,” he ordered her.
“You ’ll make yerself sick,” she said.
“I ’d sooner be sick than hungry. Hurry up.”
He explained to Cooney: “That coal would ’ve done the trick, would n’t it? Well, that was a plant. See? Leave it to me.” He swept them all with a Napoleonic eye. “An’ you ’ll keep quiet about it—all of you—er you ’ll crab the whole game.”
