conceal his chagrin, thrust it into his trousers pocket.
Joe looked at him sadly, as was Joe's wont. "A fine bunch of grafters," the soda king drawled. "You stick with them, kid, and they'll have your shirt in a week. I know that gang."
Harold bristled. "On the contrary, they're very fine fellows. Personal friends of mine."
Joe raised thin hands aloft, indicating that it was none of his business. "All right, kid, all right," he conceded. "Have it your own way. Only I've been around here twenty years longer than you have. Just remember that."
And he started on the job of washing thirty glasses.
