She took them off to ask: "Why ain't you sellin' your things?"
"Nothin' doin'." He had a wooden tray of chewing-gum and prize packages slung before him on straps from his shoulders. "Could n't sell that gang silver dollars at three fer a nickel. They ain't got the price. Bunch o' kikes. Say! The nex' dame yuh get in here, tell her she's goin' to find her fortune in a prize package, will yuh? That 'd help."
She shook her head. "They don't come the way they ust to. The Professor says he don't think we 're more than payin' rent since Feb'u'ry."
Redney made a sound of derision in his nose. "The game 's a dead one, Ev'ry one 's wise to them fakes." He indicated the "exhibits" with a backward jerk of the head.
He was called "Redney" as a dog is called "Spot"; his real name was as unknown as his history. He had arrived at the Musée with the sun-scalded complexion of an amateur tramp; and after "boosting" for a time, on the street, he had obtained the privilege of selling candies inside, on a percentage basis. It was understood that he had previously been traveling with a circus, as a "butcher," selling lemonade and "red-hots." He had a lumpy chin and jaw, but lips that were nimble, full of unexpected muscles, suave and slangy—the lips of a man who has the gift of the gab.
"Movin' pictur' joints an' nickelodeons 've got us on the blink," he said. "We're tryin' to pay too much rent anyway."
