human
as the currency goes down in the ladies' department of the
gpt
Old Domestic Lisle-Thread Bank.
human
Salt away that chicken feed in your duds, and skip along, says Buck.
gpt
What business have you got investing in bonds? The tea-pot or the crack in the wall behind the clock for your hoard of pennies.
human
A wedding present, says our treasurer,
gpt
You begun this, says Buck;
human
News! says the newspaper man, taking his pipe out;
gpt
You can't understand it, of course, says Buck, with his hand on the door knob.
human
Me and Pick ain't Wall Streeters like you know 'em. We never allowed to swindle sick old women and working girls and take nickels off of kids. In the lines of graft we've worked we took money from the people the Lord made to be buncoed--sports and rounders and smart Alecks and street crowds, that always have a few dollars to throw away, and farmers that wouldn't ever be happy if the grafters didn't come around and play with 'em when they sold their crops. We never cared to fish for the kind of suckers that bite here. No, sir. We got too much respect for the profession and for ourselves. Good-by to you, Mr. Receiver.
gpt
Here! says the journalist reporter;
human
On you? says Buck, winking solemn.
gpt
Don't you go and try to make 'em believe at the office you said that. Thanks. We can't spare the time, I reckon. So long.