peen?" he says in amazement. "Say, Cutey, don't be cheatin' yourself! D'ye know I clicked off a hundred thousand smackers in the ring last year?"
"The place to go with that information is the income tax collector," I says. "Why bother me with your business troubles? I have quite a collection of phone numbers here, can I sell you one?"
"Yeah, gimme a pink one," grins Hurricane Sherlock. "And listen, kid—me and you is goin' to see a lot of each other, so you might as well start right in gettin' used to me. I ain't a bad guy when they treat me right—when they don't treat me right, I'm poison. Now give Worth 86753 a bell and make it snappy!"
Honest, I'm so overcome with this fellow's nerve that I can't think of a comeback! I just nodded him to a booth and got him the number. He talked about five minutes to his manager. I know it was his manager because I passed up at least four much more spicier phone conversations to listen in on him. When he come out he tossed a dollar on the switchboard.
"Keep the change and buy yourself a railroad," he says. "I'll be back again tonight and we'll talk about this and that!"
If nerve was money, Hurricane Sherlock would of made Rockefeller look like a public charge, now wouldn't he?
From then on it was a case of try and keep the
