"Do you want to bet?" asked the Watermelon. "All there is in the register, huh? Even money," and he jingled the keys in his pocket. "Naw," said the barber. "I know he couldn’t have robbed it. It’s impossible, even if the thing could be robbed, which it can’t be. I was right here all the time." "It’s near the lookin’-glass," said the Watermelon. "He went close to the counter to see himself, didn’t he?" The Watermelon knew vanity as James’ one weakness and realized with what pleasure he himself would stand before the mirror and gaze fondly at his own charms, uncontaminated by a shaggy, two-weeks’ growth of beard. "Yes," admitted the barber slowly. "He did look at himself for a long time." "And some of the time your back was turned," added the Watermelon. "You were probably cleaning up or looking for a whisk." "Yes," admitted the barber again, still more reluctantly. "But nobody can bust into one of them cash registers, not without a noise that would be heard across the room." "I’ll bet he did," said the Watermelon. "Do you take me?" "But they can’t be busted," reiterated the barber. "Then why the devil don’t you bet?" demanded the Watermelon. "You are bettin’ on a sure thing." "Yes, go on. Don’t be scared," encouraged Wilton’s gay youth in joyful chorus. The barber started for his precious register, but the Watermelon reached it first and laid his hand on it. "Do you take me?" he asked. "You have to say that before you can count the change or the bet’s—Say, is that the galoot?" he nodded suddenly toward the window and all turned quickly, instinctively, to look up the village street. The Watermelon hastily thrust a thin comb between the bell and the gong so it would not ring as he gently pressed the twenty-five cent key, registering another quarter, then he joined the others, pushing and struggling to see the man who did not pass, and gazed languidly over their heads. "There ain’t no one there," exclaimed the barber. "He’s passed out of sight," said the Watermelon, making a feeble attempt to see up the street. "He was almost by as I saw him." "Do you take me?" he asked, as they returned to the counter and the subject of the cash register. His hands were in his pockets and occasionally he jingled the keys. "Aw, go on," urged Harry, who was a sport. "What are you afraid of?" "He couldn’t have picked it," insisted the barber, whose faith in his register was really sublime. "Sure he could. They are easy to a guy who knows the ropes," declared the Watermelon. "The drummer was handing you a lot of hot air when he said they can’t be picked. You don’t want to be so easy." The slur on his mental capacity was too much for the barber. His vanity rose in defense of his register where his faith had failed. "I have some brains," he snorted. "I know the thing is perfectly safe. Yes, I take you."