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Blicker from a region of mortar pestles, empty pill-boxes, and glass retorts. "What you want?" he asked aggressively. "I want me thumb bandaged." "You cut him eh?" Bubbles lowered his voice. "On a barnacle." "Come in back here," said Mr. Blicker roughly. "I fix him." But once out of sight in the depths of the store, his manner changed, and he patted Bubbles enthusiastically on the back.
"And that proves," he exclaimed, "that nothing is to happen when you and I are wearing straw hats but in winter. Bubbles, you're a bright boy!" "You are both so bright," said Mr. Blicker, "you keep me all the time laughing." "Well," said Mr. Lichtenstein, "that may be, but suppose you tell me why Blizzard makes straw hats and don't sell 'em.
Suppose at the sound every policeman in greater New York was shot dead in his tracks " Bubbles's hair began to bristle. "Say," he cried in his excitement, "the straw hats the soft straw hats that Blizzard makes and don't sell they're the white cockades!" Mr. Blicker guffawed. Mr. Lichtenstein rose and paced the room.
Then with a finger on his lips he pointed to a narrow staircase and, his own feet making a great tramping, led the way up it. Upon the top steps they found Mr. Lichtenstein, nervously puffing clouds of tobacco smoke, "'Bout given you up," he said. "Good boy!" "Better talk by the parlor," said Blicker; "here is too exposed."
If a man rose up with the power to command such a following, with the ability to keep his plans absolutely secret, with the genius to make plans in which there were no flaws, he could loot Maiden Lane, the Sub-Treasury, Tiffany's, the Metropolitan Museum and get away with it." Mr. Lichtenstein's small eyes glittered. He was visibly excited. And so was Mr. Blicker.
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