moment of conquest. Dolf misinterpreted his silence.
"I knew it was a lie," he said triumphantly.
"It's true," Bert said; "we open the store Saturday week."
Dolf's face fell. Bert took a key from his pocket, turned it in the lock, and let them into the store. Bill, after a quick survey, stood leaning against the counter, grave and silent. Dolf went about poking into corners.
"What are you going to sell?" he asked at last.
Bert told them of Sam's idea, showed them the printed letters, and enlarged upon his hopes. Bill read a letter gravely, folded it, and put it back in its envelope. Dolf was frankly scornful.
"It's a punk idea," he sniffed. "The only thing to sell is something people have to have—clothes, and bread and cake, and meat and groceries. We buy one paper every day. Why should we pay fifty cents a month to look at other papers? Why, often my father has time only to look at the funny page. If we had three papers they'd be scattered all over the house and my mother'd be throwing them out."
"We don't deliver the papers," Bert said; "we keep them here."
"That's worse," Dolf said positively. "Catch my mother getting all dressed up just to come out and look at a newspaper."
"Dolf," Bill drawled, "you really ought to come
