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Updated: May 5, 2025
He wondered if they would really throw it out into space with him. Probably they would. He pushed a button on the call board over the table and asked for the steward. There was a long wait, as if the procedure were being checked with some authority, but finally he received a surly acknowledgement. "Steward. Whatcha want?" "How's the chance of getting some food?" "You're on first-class."
A voice Smitty's or Mike's or Elmer's answering its call. Then, echoing through the grey, vaulted spaces of the big garage: "Nick! Oh, Ni-ick!" From the other side of the great cement-floored enclosure, or in muffled tones from beneath a car: "Whatcha want?" "Dame on the wire." "I ain't in." The obliging voice again, dutifully repeating the message: "He ain't in.... Well, it's hard to say.
Racey released the Tweezy ear, leaned back in his chair, and breathed triumphantly through his nose. Luke Tweezy likewise leaned back as far as his chair would permit, and fingered tenderly a tingling ear. "Whatcha gonna take Harpe's job for?" he asked, puzzled. "I thought you liked the Bar S such a lot."
"Well, I certainly got to slip you the congrats!" he protested. "And say you goin' to bounce Whigham and Wimper, too?" "Yes." "And whatcha goin' do then?" "I? To tell you the truth, I'm considering joining the Union and agitating for an eight-hour Day of Days.
Whatcha sellin', Wheatsnaps?" "Bring on the dames!" They pressed in close to the starship, running their hands over the slick metal surface. "Boy, what a prop! Bet it cost a million bucks. What ya sellin', mister?" "Sanity!" Boswellister shouted from the rear. His men tried to hold their ranks, but the crowd broke the lines, jerking the medals off their chests for souvenirs.
There were so many things about Racey that he did not understand. "Whatcha talking about?" Peaches grunted, surlily. "You me Chuck everybody, more or less. You don't, do you?" "Don't what?" A trifle more surlily.
The cook threw up his hand as though to ward off a blow. "Whatcha yellin' in my ear for?" he moaned dismally. "Want to split my head off? Woodsy's over yonder; talkin' with a man name of Blenham. Ever hear of him?" "Over yonder" plainly meant just across the creek where there was a little flat open space among the trees in which stood one of the larger shanties.
It ain't Saturday night." At the stoop of her rooming house they lingered. A honey-colored moon hung like a lantern over the block-long row of shabby-fronted houses. On her steps and to her fermenting fancy the shadow of an ash can sprawled like a prostrate human being. "Charley!" She clutched his arm. "Whatcha scared about, Sweetness?" "Oh, Charley, I I feel creepy to-night."
One evening at dinner, some time later, Hanlon became aware that the guard, Gorton, was growling at him. He looked up in surprise, and forced himself to pay attention to the big man's words. "I ask ya, whatcha tryin' t' do, punk?" the small pig-eyes glared redly at him, and the voice was harsh and bitter. "Try'n'a show up us other guards? What'sa big idea, gettin' out more ore'n we do?"
"Will a thousand dollars make you change your mind?" The chauffeur's eyes narrowed. "Whatcha drivin' at? Me why I'd take a lotta chances for a thousand." "Help me do as I say and it's yours." "Lead me to the coin," was the prompt decision. "Here, then!" P. Sybarite delved hastily into a trousers pocket and produced a handful of bills of large denominations.
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