"Is it a go?" he asked.
"Where is the map?" I inquired, trembling internally with excitement.
"Ha--ha!" he said. "Listen to my mirth! The map is inside here, old
sport!" and he tapped his retreating forehead with one nicotine-stained
finger.
"I see," said I, trying to speak carelessly; "you desire to pilot me."
"I don't desire to but I gotta go with you."
"An accurate map--"
"Can it, old sport! A accurate map is all right when it's pasted over the
front of your head for a face. But I wear the other kind of map _inside_
me conk. Get me?"
"I confess that I do not."
"Well, get _this_, then. It's a cash deal. If the goods is up to sample
you hand me mine then an' there. I don't deliver no goods f.o.b. I shows
'em to you. After you have saw them it's up to you to round 'em up.
That's all, as they say when our great President pulls a gun. There ain't
goin' to be no shootin'; walk out quietly, ladies!"
After I had sat there for fully ten minutes staring at him I came to the
only logical conclusion possible to a scientific mind.
I said: "You are, admittedly, unlettered; you are confessedly a
chevalier of industry; personally you are exceedingly distasteful to me.
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