“I’dliketoletadozenyoungAmericanslooseintoit。”saidmyuncle。“Thenwe’dsee。”
ImadeatickagainstMotherShipton’sSleepingSyrup。Wehadclearedourforwardstock。
“ThingsmustbehappeningSOMEWHERE，George。”hebrokeoutinaquerulouslyrisingnoteashecamebackintothelittleshop。Hefiddledwiththepileddummyboxesoffancysoapandscentandsoforththatadornedtheendofthecounter，thenturnedaboutpetulantly，stuckhishandsdeeplyintohispocketsandwithdrewonetoscratchhishead。“ImustdoSOMETHING。”hesaid。“I
can’tstandit。
“Imustinventsomething。Andshoveit。Icould。