Reading Comprehension

ALL THAT GLITTERS

His first summer at college, Jimmy operated a candy route on the south side of Chicago.
I'd like to make one thing clear, said the boss the day he hired Jimmy. If you extend credit to anyone, it's your responsibility, your neck. We'll take any delinquencies out of your bond, see?
The customers were small mom and pop neighbourhood stores and an occasional supermarket. Most were poor credit risks, only marginally profitable at best.
At 7:00 A.M. Jimmy stocked the shelves of his rattly company van with a variety of candy bars-coconut, peanut, peppermint-both chewy and soft. The rule was that he'd be stuck with what didn't sell unless he traded it with another driver.
In a few weeks, several store owners had befriended Jimmy and favoured him with the bulk of their candy businessAmong them was Gus Fantas, a small, beaming, friendly man in his early forties who owned a tiny, sparsely stocked, rinky-dink convenience store in the middle of the black belt. Gus was one of those who let Jimmy make up his orders for him.
Whatever you think I need is okay with me, he'

d say. How much do I owe?
Gus would push the NO SALE key on the cash register, withdraw a fistful of cash, and count out the desired amount of bills with a fl

ourish, making sure that Jimmy saw how flush he was. Gus's store, which Jimmy visited every Thursday, was his favorite stop. He and Gus had such congenial talks he found it hard to tear himself away for the next

call. They talked about a range of subjects: the economy, Gus's war experiences, Jimmy's long-range plans and women. Gus was a true man of experience, informed and wise.
I've got to go, Gus, Jimmy would say, still lingering. I've got to go.
Jimmy, you got it made, Gus said.
What do you mean? Jimmy asked.
The niggers go crazy over your peanut bars. 'Course it's junk but it fills 'em up.
Are you saying the customers are eating candy instead of real food? Jimmy asked. He emphasized customer because the word nigger bothered him.
Hey, Jimmy, where you been? The niggers don't have enough money for real food. See the dust on those cans of vegetables. Your candy moves ten times as fast which is okay with me. I make more money on the candy anyway.
That's not right, Gus. You shouldn't encourage them to eat so much of my stuff.
You want to sell, don't you? Get wise, Jimmy, unless you want to finish last.
On the second Thursday in August Jimmy made up Gus's order as usual. Gus pushed the NO SALE key on the cash register but this time the bill sections were empty.
Christ, Jimmy, I forgot to go to the bank for cash this morning. How about a cheque this time?
I'm sorry, Gus, but cheques are against the rules. The company won't take them.
Well, that's too bad. I s'pose you'll just have to take back the candy.
I don't want to do that, Gus.
I know you don't, Jimmy. You're a real friend. But I wouldn't expect you to break company rules.
Well, I could take your cheque but I'd have to cover it personally.
You mean you'd do that, Jimmy?
If it bounced I'd be responsible.
You have my word. My check's as strong as steel. You've got nothing to worry about.

ALL THAT GLITTERS

His first summer at college, Jimmy operated a candy route on the south side of Chicago.
I'd like to make one thing clear, said the boss the day he hired Jimmy. If you extend credit to anyone, it's your responsibility, your neck. We'll take any delinquencies out of your bond, see?
The customers were small mom and pop neighbourhood stores and an occasional supermarket. Most were poor credit risks, only marginally profitable at best.
At 7:00 A.M. Jimmy stocked the shelves of his rattly company van with a variety of candy bars-coconut, peanut, peppermint-both chewy and soft. The rule was that he'd be stuck with what didn't sell unless he traded it with another driver.
In a few weeks, several store owners had befriended Jimmy and favoured him with the bulk of their candy businessAmong them was Gus Fantas, a small, beaming, friendly man in his early forties who owned a tiny, sparsely stocked, rinky-dink convenience store in the middle of the black belt. Gus was one of those who let Jimmy make up his orders for him.
Whatever you think I need is okay with me, he'

d say. How much do I owe?
Gus would push the NO SALE key on the cash register, withdraw a fistful of cash, and count out the desired amount of bills with a fl

ourish, making sure that Jimmy saw how flush he was. Gus's store, which Jimmy visited every Thursday, was his favorite stop. He and Gus had such congenial talks he found it hard to tear himself away for the next

call. They talked about a range of subjects: the economy, Gus's war experiences, Jimmy's long-range plans and women. Gus was a true man of experience, informed and wise.
I've got to go, Gus, Jimmy would say, still lingering. I've got to go.
Jimmy, you got it made, Gus said.
What do you mean? Jimmy asked.
The niggers go crazy over your peanut bars. 'Course it's junk but it fills 'em up.
Are you saying the customers are eating candy instead of real food? Jimmy asked. He emphasized customer because the word nigger bothered him.
Hey, Jimmy, where you been? The niggers don't have enough money for real food. See the dust on those cans of vegetables. Your candy moves ten times as fast which is okay with me. I make more money on the candy anyway.
That's not right, Gus. You shouldn't encourage them to eat so much of my stuff.
You want to sell, don't you? Get wise, Jimmy, unless you want to finish last.
On the second Thursday in August Jimmy made up Gus's order as usual. Gus pushed the NO SALE key on the cash register but this time the bill sections were empty.
Christ, Jimmy, I forgot to go to the bank for cash this morning. How about a cheque this time?
I'm sorry, Gus, but cheques are against the rules. The company won't take them.
Well, that's too bad. I s'pose you'll just have to take back the candy.
I don't want to do that, Gus.
I know you don't, Jimmy. You're a real friend. But I wouldn't expect you to break company rules.
Well, I could take your cheque but I'd have to cover it personally.
You mean you'd do that, Jimmy?
If it bounced I'd be responsible.
You have my word. My check's as strong as steel. You've got nothing to worry about.

ALL THAT GLITTERS

His first summer at college, Jimmy operated a candy route on the south side of Chicago.
I'd like to make one thing clear, said the boss the day he hired Jimmy. If you extend credit to anyone, it's your responsibility, your neck. We'll take any delinquencies out of your bond, see?
The customers were small mom and pop neighbourhood stores and an occasional supermarket. Most were poor credit risks, only marginally profitable at best.
At 7:00 A.M. Jimmy stocked the shelves of his rattly company van with a variety of candy bars-coconut, peanut, peppermint-both chewy and soft. The rule was that he'd be stuck with what didn't sell unless he traded it with another driver.
In a few weeks, several store owners had befriended Jimmy and favoured him with the bulk of their candy businessAmong them was Gus Fantas, a small, beaming, friendly man in his early forties who owned a tiny, sparsely stocked, rinky-dink convenience store in the middle of the black belt. Gus was one of those who let Jimmy make up his orders for him.
Whatever you think I need is okay with me, he'

d say. How much do I owe?
Gus would push the NO SALE key on the cash register, withdraw a fistful of cash, and count out the desired amount of bills with a fl

ourish, making sure that Jimmy saw how flush he was. Gus's store, which Jimmy visited every Thursday, was his favorite stop. He and Gus had such congenial talks he found it hard to tear himself away for the next

call. They talked about a range of subjects: the economy, Gus's war experiences, Jimmy's long-range plans and women. Gus was a true man of experience, informed and wise.
I've got to go, Gus, Jimmy would say, still lingering. I've got to go.
Jimmy, you got it made, Gus said.
What do you mean? Jimmy asked.
The niggers go crazy over your peanut bars. 'Course it's junk but it fills 'em up.
Are you saying the customers are eating candy instead of real food? Jimmy asked. He emphasized customer because the word nigger bothered him.
Hey, Jimmy, where you been? The niggers don't have enough money for real food. See the dust on those cans of vegetables. Your candy moves ten times as fast which is okay with me. I make more money on the candy anyway.
That's not right, Gus. You shouldn't encourage them to eat so much of my stuff.
You want to sell, don't you? Get wise, Jimmy, unless you want to finish last.
On the second Thursday in August Jimmy made up Gus's order as usual. Gus pushed the NO SALE key on the cash register but this time the bill sections were empty.
Christ, Jimmy, I forgot to go to the bank for cash this morning. How about a cheque this time?
I'm sorry, Gus, but cheques are against the rules. The company won't take them.
Well, that's too bad. I s'pose you'll just have to take back the candy.
I don't want to do that, Gus.
I know you don't, Jimmy. You're a real friend. But I wouldn't expect you to break company rules.
Well, I could take your cheque but I'd have to cover it personally.
You mean you'd do that, Jimmy?
If it bounced I'd be responsible.
You have my word. My check's as strong as steel. You've got nothing to worry about.

ALL THAT GLITTERS

His first summer at college, Jimmy operated a candy route on the south side of Chicago.
I'd like to make one thing clear, said the boss the day he hired Jimmy. If you extend credit to anyone, it's your responsibility, your neck. We'll take any delinquencies out of your bond, see?
The customers were small mom and pop neighbourhood stores and an occasional supermarket. Most were poor credit risks, only marginally profitable at best.
At 7:00 A.M. Jimmy stocked the shelves of his rattly company van with a variety of candy bars-coconut, peanut, peppermint-both chewy and soft. The rule was that he'd be stuck with what didn't sell unless he traded it with another driver.
In a few weeks, several store owners had befriended Jimmy and favoured him with the bulk of their candy businessAmong them was Gus Fantas, a small, beaming, friendly man in his early forties who owned a tiny, sparsely stocked, rinky-dink convenience store in the middle of the black belt. Gus was one of those who let Jimmy make up his orders for him.
Whatever you think I need is okay with me, he'

d say. How much do I owe?
Gus would push the NO SALE key on the cash register, withdraw a fistful of cash, and count out the desired amount of bills with a fl

ourish, making sure that Jimmy saw how flush he was. Gus's store, which Jimmy visited every Thursday, was his favorite stop. He and Gus had such congenial talks he found it hard to tear himself away for the next

call. They talked about a range of subjects: the economy, Gus's war experiences, Jimmy's long-range plans and women. Gus was a true man of experience, informed and wise.
I've got to go, Gus, Jimmy would say, still lingering. I've got to go.
Jimmy, you got it made, Gus said.
What do you mean? Jimmy asked.
The niggers go crazy over your peanut bars. 'Course it's junk but it fills 'em up.
Are you saying the customers are eating candy instead of real food? Jimmy asked. He emphasized customer because the word nigger bothered him.
Hey, Jimmy, where you been? The niggers don't have enough money for real food. See the dust on those cans of vegetables. Your candy moves ten times as fast which is okay with me. I make more money on the candy anyway.
That's not right, Gus. You shouldn't encourage them to eat so much of my stuff.
You want to sell, don't you? Get wise, Jimmy, unless you want to finish last.
On the second Thursday in August Jimmy made up Gus's order as usual. Gus pushed the NO SALE key on the cash register but this time the bill sections were empty.
Christ, Jimmy, I forgot to go to the bank for cash this morning. How about a cheque this time?
I'm sorry, Gus, but cheques are against the rules. The company won't take them.
Well, that's too bad. I s'pose you'll just have to take back the candy.
I don't want to do that, Gus.
I know you don't, Jimmy. You're a real friend. But I wouldn't expect you to break company rules.
Well, I could take your cheque but I'd have to cover it personally.
You mean you'd do that, Jimmy?
If it bounced I'd be responsible.
You have my word. My check's as strong as steel. You've got nothing to worry about.

ALL THAT GLITTERS

His first summer at college, Jimmy operated a candy route on the south side of Chicago.
I'd like to make one thing clear, said the boss the day he hired Jimmy. If you extend credit to anyone, it's your responsibility, your neck. We'll take any delinquencies out of your bond, see?
The customers were small mom and pop neighbourhood stores and an occasional supermarket. Most were poor credit risks, only marginally profitable at best.
At 7:00 A.M. Jimmy stocked the shelves of his rattly company van with a variety of candy bars-coconut, peanut, peppermint-both chewy and soft. The rule was that he'd be stuck with what didn't sell unless he traded it with another driver.
In a few weeks, several store owners had befriended Jimmy and favoured him with the bulk of their candy businessAmong them was Gus Fantas, a small, beaming, friendly man in his early forties who owned a tiny, sparsely stocked, rinky-dink convenience store in the middle of the black belt. Gus was one of those who let Jimmy make up his orders for him.
Whatever you think I need is okay with me, he'

d say. How much do I owe?
Gus would push the NO SALE key on the cash register, withdraw a fistful of cash, and count out the desired amount of bills with a fl

ourish, making sure that Jimmy saw how flush he was. Gus's store, which Jimmy visited every Thursday, was his favorite stop. He and Gus had such congenial talks he found it hard to tear himself away for the next

call. They talked about a range of subjects: the economy, Gus's war experiences, Jimmy's long-range plans and women. Gus was a true man of experience, informed and wise.
I've got to go, Gus, Jimmy would say, still lingering. I've got to go.
Jimmy, you got it made, Gus said.
What do you mean? Jimmy asked.
The niggers go crazy over your peanut bars. 'Course it's junk but it fills 'em up.
Are you saying the customers are eating candy instead of real food? Jimmy asked. He emphasized customer because the word nigger bothered him.
Hey, Jimmy, where you been? The niggers don't have enough money for real food. See the dust on those cans of vegetables. Your candy moves ten times as fast which is okay with me. I make more money on the candy anyway.
That's not right, Gus. You shouldn't encourage them to eat so much of my stuff.
You want to sell, don't you? Get wise, Jimmy, unless you want to finish last.
On the second Thursday in August Jimmy made up Gus's order as usual. Gus pushed the NO SALE key on the cash register but this time the bill sections were empty.
Christ, Jimmy, I forgot to go to the bank for cash this morning. How about a cheque this time?
I'm sorry, Gus, but cheques are against the rules. The company won't take them.
Well, that's too bad. I s'pose you'll just have to take back the candy.
I don't want to do that, Gus.
I know you don't, Jimmy. You're a real friend. But I wouldn't expect you to break company rules.
Well, I could take your cheque but I'd have to cover it personally.
You mean you'd do that, Jimmy?
If it bounced I'd be responsible.
You have my word. My check's as strong as steel. You've got nothing to worry about.

ALL THAT GLITTERS

His first summer at college, Jimmy operated a candy route on the south side of Chicago.
I'd like to make one thing clear, said the boss the day he hired Jimmy. If you extend credit to anyone, it's your responsibility, your neck. We'll take any delinquencies out of your bond, see?
The customers were small mom and pop neighbourhood stores and an occasional supermarket. Most were poor credit risks, only marginally profitable at best.
At 7:00 A.M. Jimmy stocked the shelves of his rattly company van with a variety of candy bars-coconut, peanut, peppermint-both chewy and soft. The rule was that he'd be stuck with what didn't sell unless he traded it with another driver.
In a few weeks, several store owners had befriended Jimmy and favoured him with the bulk of their candy businessAmong them was Gus Fantas, a small, beaming, friendly man in his early forties who owned a tiny, sparsely stocked, rinky-dink convenience store in the middle of the black belt. Gus was one of those who let Jimmy make up his orders for him.
Whatever you think I need is okay with me, he'

d say. How much do I owe?
Gus would push the NO SALE key on the cash register, withdraw a fistful of cash, and count out the desired amount of bills with a fl

ourish, making sure that Jimmy saw how flush he was. Gus's store, which Jimmy visited every Thursday, was his favorite stop. He and Gus had such congenial talks he found it hard to tear himself away for the next

call. They talked about a range of subjects: the economy, Gus's war experiences, Jimmy's long-range plans and women. Gus was a true man of experience, informed and wise.
I've got to go, Gus, Jimmy would say, still lingering. I've got to go.
Jimmy, you got it made, Gus said.
What do you mean? Jimmy asked.
The niggers go crazy over your peanut bars. 'Course it's junk but it fills 'em up.
Are you saying the customers are eating candy instead of real food? Jimmy asked. He emphasized customer because the word nigger bothered him.
Hey, Jimmy, where you been? The niggers don't have enough money for real food. See the dust on those cans of vegetables. Your candy moves ten times as fast which is okay with me. I make more money on the candy anyway.
That's not right, Gus. You shouldn't encourage them to eat so much of my stuff.
You want to sell, don't you? Get wise, Jimmy, unless you want to finish last.
On the second Thursday in August Jimmy made up Gus's order as usual. Gus pushed the NO SALE key on the cash register but this time the bill sections were empty.
Christ, Jimmy, I forgot to go to the bank for cash this morning. How about a cheque this time?
I'm sorry, Gus, but cheques are against the rules. The company won't take them.
Well, that's too bad. I s'pose you'll just have to take back the candy.
I don't want to do that, Gus.
I know you don't, Jimmy. You're a real friend. But I wouldn't expect you to break company rules.
Well, I could take your cheque but I'd have to cover it personally.
You mean you'd do that, Jimmy?
If it bounced I'd be responsible.
You have my word. My check's as strong as steel. You've got nothing to worry about.

ALL THAT GLITTERS

His first summer at college, Jimmy operated a candy route on the south side of Chicago.
I'd like to make one thing clear, said the boss the day he hired Jimmy. If you extend credit to anyone, it's your responsibility, your neck. We'll take any delinquencies out of your bond, see?
The customers were small mom and pop neighbourhood stores and an occasional supermarket. Most were poor credit risks, only marginally profitable at best.
At 7:00 A.M. Jimmy stocked the shelves of his rattly company van with a variety of candy bars-coconut, peanut, peppermint-both chewy and soft. The rule was that he'd be stuck with what didn't sell unless he traded it with another driver.
In a few weeks, several store owners had befriended Jimmy and favoured him with the bulk of their candy businessAmong them was Gus Fantas, a small, beaming, friendly man in his early forties who owned a tiny, sparsely stocked, rinky-dink convenience store in the middle of the black belt. Gus was one of those who let Jimmy make up his orders for him.
Whatever you think I need is okay with me, he'

d say. How much do I owe?
Gus would push the NO SALE key on the cash register, withdraw a fistful of cash, and count out the desired amount of bills with a fl

ourish, making sure that Jimmy saw how flush he was. Gus's store, which Jimmy visited every Thursday, was his favorite stop. He and Gus had such congenial talks he found it hard to tear himself away for the next

call. They talked about a range of subjects: the economy, Gus's war experiences, Jimmy's long-range plans and women. Gus was a true man of experience, informed and wise.
I've got to go, Gus, Jimmy would say, still lingering. I've got to go.
Jimmy, you got it made, Gus said.
What do you mean? Jimmy asked.
The niggers go crazy over your peanut bars. 'Course it's junk but it fills 'em up.
Are you saying the customers are eating candy instead of real food? Jimmy asked. He emphasized customer because the word nigger bothered him.
Hey, Jimmy, where you been? The niggers don't have enough money for real food. See the dust on those cans of vegetables. Your candy moves ten times as fast which is okay with me. I make more money on the candy anyway.
That's not right, Gus. You shouldn't encourage them to eat so much of my stuff.
You want to sell, don't you? Get wise, Jimmy, unless you want to finish last.
On the second Thursday in August Jimmy made up Gus's order as usual. Gus pushed the NO SALE key on the cash register but this time the bill sections were empty.
Christ, Jimmy, I forgot to go to the bank for cash this morning. How about a cheque this time?
I'm sorry, Gus, but cheques are against the rules. The company won't take them.
Well, that's too bad. I s'pose you'll just have to take back the candy.
I don't want to do that, Gus.
I know you don't, Jimmy. You're a real friend. But I wouldn't expect you to break company rules.
Well, I could take your cheque but I'd have to cover it personally.
You mean you'd do that, Jimmy?
If it bounced I'd be responsible.
You have my word. My check's as strong as steel. You've got nothing to worry about.

ALL THAT GLITTERS

His first summer at college, Jimmy operated a candy route on the south side of Chicago.
I'd like to make one thing clear, said the boss the day he hired Jimmy. If you extend credit to anyone, it's your responsibility, your neck. We'll take any delinquencies out of your bond, see?
The customers were small mom and pop neighbourhood stores and an occasional supermarket. Most were poor credit risks, only marginally profitable at best.
At 7:00 A.M. Jimmy stocked the shelves of his rattly company van with a variety of candy bars-coconut, peanut, peppermint-both chewy and soft. The rule was that he'd be stuck with what didn't sell unless he traded it with another driver.
In a few weeks, several store owners had befriended Jimmy and favoured him with the bulk of their candy businessAmong them was Gus Fantas, a small, beaming, friendly man in his early forties who owned a tiny, sparsely stocked, rinky-dink convenience store in the middle of the black belt. Gus was one of those who let Jimmy make up his orders for him.
Whatever you think I need is okay with me, he'

d say. How much do I owe?
Gus would push the NO SALE key on the cash register, withdraw a fistful of cash, and count out the desired amount of bills with a fl

ourish, making sure that Jimmy saw how flush he was. Gus's store, which Jimmy visited every Thursday, was his favorite stop. He and Gus had such congenial talks he found it hard to tear himself away for the next

call. They talked about a range of subjects: the economy, Gus's war experiences, Jimmy's long-range plans and women. Gus was a true man of experience, informed and wise.
I've got to go, Gus, Jimmy would say, still lingering. I've got to go.
Jimmy, you got it made, Gus said.
What do you mean? Jimmy asked.
The niggers go crazy over your peanut bars. 'Course it's junk but it fills 'em up.
Are you saying the customers are eating candy instead of real food? Jimmy asked. He emphasized customer because the word nigger bothered him.
Hey, Jimmy, where you been? The niggers don't have enough money for real food. See the dust on those cans of vegetables. Your candy moves ten times as fast which is okay with me. I make more money on the candy anyway.
That's not right, Gus. You shouldn't encourage them to eat so much of my stuff.
You want to sell, don't you? Get wise, Jimmy, unless you want to finish last.
On the second Thursday in August Jimmy made up Gus's order as usual. Gus pushed the NO SALE key on the cash register but this time the bill sections were empty.
Christ, Jimmy, I forgot to go to the bank for cash this morning. How about a cheque this time?
I'm sorry, Gus, but cheques are against the rules. The company won't take them.
Well, that's too bad. I s'pose you'll just have to take back the candy.
I don't want to do that, Gus.
I know you don't, Jimmy. You're a real friend. But I wouldn't expect you to break company rules.
Well, I could take your cheque but I'd have to cover it personally.
You mean you'd do that, Jimmy?
If it bounced I'd be responsible.
You have my word. My check's as strong as steel. You've got nothing to worry about.

ALL THAT GLITTERS

His first summer at college, Jimmy operated a candy route on the south side of Chicago.
I'd like to make one thing clear, said the boss the day he hired Jimmy. If you extend credit to anyone, it's your responsibility, your neck. We'll take any delinquencies out of your bond, see?
The customers were small mom and pop neighbourhood stores and an occasional supermarket. Most were poor credit risks, only marginally profitable at best.
At 7:00 A.M. Jimmy stocked the shelves of his rattly company van with a variety of candy bars-coconut, peanut, peppermint-both chewy and soft. The rule was that he'd be stuck with what didn't sell unless he traded it with another driver.
In a few weeks, several store owners had befriended Jimmy and favoured him with the bulk of their candy businessAmong them was Gus Fantas, a small, beaming, friendly man in his early forties who owned a tiny, sparsely stocked, rinky-dink convenience store in the middle of the black belt. Gus was one of those who let Jimmy make up his orders for him.
Whatever you think I need is okay with me, he'

d say. How much do I owe?
Gus would push the NO SALE key on the cash register, withdraw a fistful of cash, and count out the desired amount of bills with a fl

ourish, making sure that Jimmy saw how flush he was. Gus's store, which Jimmy visited every Thursday, was his favorite stop. He and Gus had such congenial talks he found it hard to tear himself away for the next

call. They talked about a range of subjects: the economy, Gus's war experiences, Jimmy's long-range plans and women. Gus was a true man of experience, informed and wise.
I've got to go, Gus, Jimmy would say, still lingering. I've got to go.
Jimmy, you got it made, Gus said.
What do you mean? Jimmy asked.
The niggers go crazy over your peanut bars. 'Course it's junk but it fills 'em up.
Are you saying the customers are eating candy instead of real food? Jimmy asked. He emphasized customer because the word nigger bothered him.
Hey, Jimmy, where you been? The niggers don't have enough money for real food. See the dust on those cans of vegetables. Your candy moves ten times as fast which is okay with me. I make more money on the candy anyway.
That's not right, Gus. You shouldn't encourage them to eat so much of my stuff.
You want to sell, don't you? Get wise, Jimmy, unless you want to finish last.
On the second Thursday in August Jimmy made up Gus's order as usual. Gus pushed the NO SALE key on the cash register but this time the bill sections were empty.
Christ, Jimmy, I forgot to go to the bank for cash this morning. How about a cheque this time?
I'm sorry, Gus, but cheques are against the rules. The company won't take them.
Well, that's too bad. I s'pose you'll just have to take back the candy.
I don't want to do that, Gus.
I know you don't, Jimmy. You're a real friend. But I wouldn't expect you to break company rules.
Well, I could take your cheque but I'd have to cover it personally.
You mean you'd do that, Jimmy?
If it bounced I'd be responsible.
You have my word. My check's as strong as steel. You've got nothing to worry about.

ALL THAT GLITTERS

His first summer at college, Jimmy operated a candy route on the south side of Chicago.
I'd like to make one thing clear, said the boss the day he hired Jimmy. If you extend credit to anyone, it's your responsibility, your neck. We'll take any delinquencies out of your bond, see?
The customers were small mom and pop neighbourhood stores and an occasional supermarket. Most were poor credit risks, only marginally profitable at best.
At 7:00 A.M. Jimmy stocked the shelves of his rattly company van with a variety of candy bars-coconut, peanut, peppermint-both chewy and soft. The rule was that he'd be stuck with what didn't sell unless he traded it with another driver.
In a few weeks, several store owners had befriended Jimmy and favoured him with the bulk of their candy businessAmong them was Gus Fantas, a small, beaming, friendly man in his early forties who owned a tiny, sparsely stocked, rinky-dink convenience store in the middle of the black belt. Gus was one of those who let Jimmy make up his orders for him.
Whatever you think I need is okay with me, he'

d say. How much do I owe?
Gus would push the NO SALE key on the cash register, withdraw a fistful of cash, and count out the desired amount of bills with a fl

ourish, making sure that Jimmy saw how flush he was. Gus's store, which Jimmy visited every Thursday, was his favorite stop. He and Gus had such congenial talks he found it hard to tear himself away for the next

call. They talked about a range of subjects: the economy, Gus's war experiences, Jimmy's long-range plans and women. Gus was a true man of experience, informed and wise.
I've got to go, Gus, Jimmy would say, still lingering. I've got to go.
Jimmy, you got it made, Gus said.
What do you mean? Jimmy asked.
The niggers go crazy over your peanut bars. 'Course it's junk but it fills 'em up.
Are you saying the customers are eating candy instead of real food? Jimmy asked. He emphasized customer because the word nigger bothered him.
Hey, Jimmy, where you been? The niggers don't have enough money for real food. See the dust on those cans of vegetables. Your candy moves ten times as fast which is okay with me. I make more money on the candy anyway.
That's not right, Gus. You shouldn't encourage them to eat so much of my stuff.
You want to sell, don't you? Get wise, Jimmy, unless you want to finish last.
On the second Thursday in August Jimmy made up Gus's order as usual. Gus pushed the NO SALE key on the cash register but this time the bill sections were empty.
Christ, Jimmy, I forgot to go to the bank for cash this morning. How about a cheque this time?
I'm sorry, Gus, but cheques are against the rules. The company won't take them.
Well, that's too bad. I s'pose you'll just have to take back the candy.
I don't want to do that, Gus.
I know you don't, Jimmy. You're a real friend. But I wouldn't expect you to break company rules.
Well, I could take your cheque but I'd have to cover it personally.
You mean you'd do that, Jimmy?
If it bounced I'd be responsible.
You have my word. My check's as strong as steel. You've got nothing to worry about.

ALL THAT GLITTERS

His first summer at college, Jimmy operated a candy route on the south side of Chicago.
I'd like to make one thing clear, said the boss the day he hired Jimmy. If you extend credit to anyone, it's your responsibility, your neck. We'll take any delinquencies out of your bond, see?
The customers were small mom and pop neighbourhood stores and an occasional supermarket. Most were poor credit risks, only marginally profitable at best.
At 7:00 A.M. Jimmy stocked the shelves of his rattly company van with a variety of candy bars-coconut, peanut, peppermint-both chewy and soft. The rule was that he'd be stuck with what didn't sell unless he traded it with another driver.
In a few weeks, several store owners had befriended Jimmy and favoured him with the bulk of their candy businessAmong them was Gus Fantas, a small, beaming, friendly man in his early forties who owned a tiny, sparsely stocked, rinky-dink convenience store in the middle of the black belt. Gus was one of those who let Jimmy make up his orders for him.
Whatever you think I need is okay with me, he'

d say. How much do I owe?
Gus would push the NO SALE key on the cash register, withdraw a fistful of cash, and count out the desired amount of bills with a fl

ourish, making sure that Jimmy saw how flush he was. Gus's store, which Jimmy visited every Thursday, was his favorite stop. He and Gus had such congenial talks he found it hard to tear himself away for the next

call. They talked about a range of subjects: the economy, Gus's war experiences, Jimmy's long-range plans and women. Gus was a true man of experience, informed and wise.
I've got to go, Gus, Jimmy would say, still lingering. I've got to go.
Jimmy, you got it made, Gus said.
What do you mean? Jimmy asked.
The niggers go crazy over your peanut bars. 'Course it's junk but it fills 'em up.
Are you saying the customers are eating candy instead of real food? Jimmy asked. He emphasized customer because the word nigger bothered him.
Hey, Jimmy, where you been? The niggers don't have enough money for real food. See the dust on those cans of vegetables. Your candy moves ten times as fast which is okay with me. I make more money on the candy anyway.
That's not right, Gus. You shouldn't encourage them to eat so much of my stuff.
You want to sell, don't you? Get wise, Jimmy, unless you want to finish last.
On the second Thursday in August Jimmy made up Gus's order as usual. Gus pushed the NO SALE key on the cash register but this time the bill sections were empty.
Christ, Jimmy, I forgot to go to the bank for cash this morning. How about a cheque this time?
I'm sorry, Gus, but cheques are against the rules. The company won't take them.
Well, that's too bad. I s'pose you'll just have to take back the candy.
I don't want to do that, Gus.
I know you don't, Jimmy. You're a real friend. But I wouldn't expect you to break company rules.
Well, I could take your cheque but I'd have to cover it personally.
You mean you'd do that, Jimmy?
If it bounced I'd be responsible.
You have my word. My check's as strong as steel. You've got nothing to worry about.

ALL THAT GLITTERS

His first summer at college, Jimmy operated a candy route on the south side of Chicago.
I'd like to make one thing clear, said the boss the day he hired Jimmy. If you extend credit to anyone, it's your responsibility, your neck. We'll take any delinquencies out of your bond, see?
The customers were small mom and pop neighbourhood stores and an occasional supermarket. Most were poor credit risks, only marginally profitable at best.
At 7:00 A.M. Jimmy stocked the shelves of his rattly company van with a variety of candy bars-coconut, peanut, peppermint-both chewy and soft. The rule was that he'd be stuck with what didn't sell unless he traded it with another driver.
In a few weeks, several store owners had befriended Jimmy and favoured him with the bulk of their candy businessAmong them was Gus Fantas, a small, beaming, friendly man in his early forties who owned a tiny, sparsely stocked, rinky-dink convenience store in the middle of the black belt. Gus was one of those who let Jimmy make up his orders for him.
Whatever you think I need is okay with me, he'

d say. How much do I owe?
Gus would push the NO SALE key on the cash register, withdraw a fistful of cash, and count out the desired amount of bills with a fl

ourish, making sure that Jimmy saw how flush he was. Gus's store, which Jimmy visited every Thursday, was his favorite stop. He and Gus had such congenial talks he found it hard to tear himself away for the next

call. They talked about a range of subjects: the economy, Gus's war experiences, Jimmy's long-range plans and women. Gus was a true man of experience, informed and wise.
I've got to go, Gus, Jimmy would say, still lingering. I've got to go.
Jimmy, you got it made, Gus said.
What do you mean? Jimmy asked.
The niggers go crazy over your peanut bars. 'Course it's junk but it fills 'em up.
Are you saying the customers are eating candy instead of real food? Jimmy asked. He emphasized customer because the word nigger bothered him.
Hey, Jimmy, where you been? The niggers don't have enough money for real food. See the dust on those cans of vegetables. Your candy moves ten times as fast which is okay with me. I make more money on the candy anyway.
That's not right, Gus. You shouldn't encourage them to eat so much of my stuff.
You want to sell, don't you? Get wise, Jimmy, unless you want to finish last.
On the second Thursday in August Jimmy made up Gus's order as usual. Gus pushed the NO SALE key on the cash register but this time the bill sections were empty.
Christ, Jimmy, I forgot to go to the bank for cash this morning. How about a cheque this time?
I'm sorry, Gus, but cheques are against the rules. The company won't take them.
Well, that's too bad. I s'pose you'll just have to take back the candy.
I don't want to do that, Gus.
I know you don't, Jimmy. You're a real friend. But I wouldn't expect you to break company rules.
Well, I could take your cheque but I'd have to cover it personally.
You mean you'd do that, Jimmy?
If it bounced I'd be responsible.
You have my word. My check's as strong as steel. You've got nothing to worry about.

ALL THAT GLITTERS

His first summer at college, Jimmy operated a candy route on the south side of Chicago.
I'd like to make one thing clear, said the boss the day he hired Jimmy. If you extend credit to anyone, it's your responsibility, your neck. We'll take any delinquencies out of your bond, see?
The customers were small mom and pop neighbourhood stores and an occasional supermarket. Most were poor credit risks, only marginally profitable at best.
At 7:00 A.M. Jimmy stocked the shelves of his rattly company van with a variety of candy bars-coconut, peanut, peppermint-both chewy and soft. The rule was that he'd be stuck with what didn't sell unless he traded it with another driver.
In a few weeks, several store owners had befriended Jimmy and favoured him with the bulk of their candy businessAmong them was Gus Fantas, a small, beaming, friendly man in his early forties who owned a tiny, sparsely stocked, rinky-dink convenience store in the middle of the black belt. Gus was one of those who let Jimmy make up his orders for him.
Whatever you think I need is okay with me, he'

d say. How much do I owe?
Gus would push the NO SALE key on the cash register, withdraw a fistful of cash, and count out the desired amount of bills with a fl

ourish, making sure that Jimmy saw how flush he was. Gus's store, which Jimmy visited every Thursday, was his favorite stop. He and Gus had such congenial talks he found it hard to tear himself away for the next

call. They talked about a range of subjects: the economy, Gus's war experiences, Jimmy's long-range plans and women. Gus was a true man of experience, informed and wise.
I've got to go, Gus, Jimmy would say, still lingering. I've got to go.
Jimmy, you got it made, Gus said.
What do you mean? Jimmy asked.
The niggers go crazy over your peanut bars. 'Course it's junk but it fills 'em up.
Are you saying the customers are eating candy instead of real food? Jimmy asked. He emphasized customer because the word nigger bothered him.
Hey, Jimmy, where you been? The niggers don't have enough money for real food. See the dust on those cans of vegetables. Your candy moves ten times as fast which is okay with me. I make more money on the candy anyway.
That's not right, Gus. You shouldn't encourage them to eat so much of my stuff.
You want to sell, don't you? Get wise, Jimmy, unless you want to finish last.
On the second Thursday in August Jimmy made up Gus's order as usual. Gus pushed the NO SALE key on the cash register but this time the bill sections were empty.
Christ, Jimmy, I forgot to go to the bank for cash this morning. How about a cheque this time?
I'm sorry, Gus, but cheques are against the rules. The company won't take them.
Well, that's too bad. I s'pose you'll just have to take back the candy.
I don't want to do that, Gus.
I know you don't, Jimmy. You're a real friend. But I wouldn't expect you to break company rules.
Well, I could take your cheque but I'd have to cover it personally.
You mean you'd do that, Jimmy?
If it bounced I'd be responsible.
You have my word. My check's as strong as steel. You've got nothing to worry about.

ALL THAT GLITTERS

His first summer at college, Jimmy operated a candy route on the south side of Chicago.
I'd like to make one thing clear, said the boss the day he hired Jimmy. If you extend credit to anyone, it's your responsibility, your neck. We'll take any delinquencies out of your bond, see?
The customers were small mom and pop neighbourhood stores and an occasional supermarket. Most were poor credit risks, only marginally profitable at best.
At 7:00 A.M. Jimmy stocked the shelves of his rattly company van with a variety of candy bars-coconut, peanut, peppermint-both chewy and soft. The rule was that he'd be stuck with what didn't sell unless he traded it with another driver.
In a few weeks, several store owners had befriended Jimmy and favoured him with the bulk of their candy businessAmong them was Gus Fantas, a small, beaming, friendly man in his early forties who owned a tiny, sparsely stocked, rinky-dink convenience store in the middle of the black belt. Gus was one of those who let Jimmy make up his orders for him.
Whatever you think I need is okay with me, he'

d say. How much do I owe?
Gus would push the NO SALE key on the cash register, withdraw a fistful of cash, and count out the desired amount of bills with a fl

ourish, making sure that Jimmy saw how flush he was. Gus's store, which Jimmy visited every Thursday, was his favorite stop. He and Gus had such congenial talks he found it hard to tear himself away for the next

call. They talked about a range of subjects: the economy, Gus's war experiences, Jimmy's long-range plans and women. Gus was a true man of experience, informed and wise.
I've got to go, Gus, Jimmy would say, still lingering. I've got to go.
Jimmy, you got it made, Gus said.
What do you mean? Jimmy asked.
The niggers go crazy over your peanut bars. 'Course it's junk but it fills 'em up.
Are you saying the customers are eating candy instead of real food? Jimmy asked. He emphasized customer because the word nigger bothered him.
Hey, Jimmy, where you been? The niggers don't have enough money for real food. See the dust on those cans of vegetables. Your candy moves ten times as fast which is okay with me. I make more money on the candy anyway.
That's not right, Gus. You shouldn't encourage them to eat so much of my stuff.
You want to sell, don't you? Get wise, Jimmy, unless you want to finish last.
On the second Thursday in August Jimmy made up Gus's order as usual. Gus pushed the NO SALE key on the cash register but this time the bill sections were empty.
Christ, Jimmy, I forgot to go to the bank for cash this morning. How about a cheque this time?
I'm sorry, Gus, but cheques are against the rules. The company won't take them.
Well, that's too bad. I s'pose you'll just have to take back the candy.
I don't want to do that, Gus.
I know you don't, Jimmy. You're a real friend. But I wouldn't expect you to break company rules.
Well, I could take your cheque but I'd have to cover it personally.
You mean you'd do that, Jimmy?
If it bounced I'd be responsible.
You have my word. My check's as strong as steel. You've got nothing to worry about.

ALL THAT GLITTERS

His first summer at college, Jimmy operated a candy route on the south side of Chicago.
I'd like to make one thing clear, said the boss the day he hired Jimmy. If you extend credit to anyone, it's your responsibility, your neck. We'll take any delinquencies out of your bond, see?
The customers were small mom and pop neighbourhood stores and an occasional supermarket. Most were poor credit risks, only marginally profitable at best.
At 7:00 A.M. Jimmy stocked the shelves of his rattly company van with a variety of candy bars-coconut, peanut, peppermint-both chewy and soft. The rule was that he'd be stuck with what didn't sell unless he traded it with another driver.
In a few weeks, several store owners had befriended Jimmy and favoured him with the bulk of their candy businessAmong them was Gus Fantas, a small, beaming, friendly man in his early forties who owned a tiny, sparsely stocked, rinky-dink convenience store in the middle of the black belt. Gus was one of those who let Jimmy make up his orders for him.
Whatever you think I need is okay with me, he'

d say. How much do I owe?
Gus would push the NO SALE key on the cash register, withdraw a fistful of cash, and count out the desired amount of bills with a fl

ourish, making sure that Jimmy saw how flush he was. Gus's store, which Jimmy visited every Thursday, was his favorite stop. He and Gus had such congenial talks he found it hard to tear himself away for the next

call. They talked about a range of subjects: the economy, Gus's war experiences, Jimmy's long-range plans and women. Gus was a true man of experience, informed and wise.
I've got to go, Gus, Jimmy would say, still lingering. I've got to go.
Jimmy, you got it made, Gus said.
What do you mean? Jimmy asked.
The niggers go crazy over your peanut bars. 'Course it's junk but it fills 'em up.
Are you saying the customers are eating candy instead of real food? Jimmy asked. He emphasized customer because the word nigger bothered him.
Hey, Jimmy, where you been? The niggers don't have enough money for real food. See the dust on those cans of vegetables. Your candy moves ten times as fast which is okay with me. I make more money on the candy anyway.
That's not right, Gus. You shouldn't encourage them to eat so much of my stuff.
You want to sell, don't you? Get wise, Jimmy, unless you want to finish last.
On the second Thursday in August Jimmy made up Gus's order as usual. Gus pushed the NO SALE key on the cash register but this time the bill sections were empty.
Christ, Jimmy, I forgot to go to the bank for cash this morning. How about a cheque this time?
I'm sorry, Gus, but cheques are against the rules. The company won't take them.
Well, that's too bad. I s'pose you'll just have to take back the candy.
I don't want to do that, Gus.
I know you don't, Jimmy. You're a real friend. But I wouldn't expect you to break company rules.
Well, I could take your cheque but I'd have to cover it personally.
You mean you'd do that, Jimmy?
If it bounced I'd be responsible.
You have my word. My check's as strong as steel. You've got nothing to worry about.

ALL THAT GLITTERS

His first summer at college, Jimmy operated a candy route on the south side of Chicago.
I'd like to make one thing clear, said the boss the day he hired Jimmy. If you extend credit to anyone, it's your responsibility, your neck. We'll take any delinquencies out of your bond, see?
The customers were small mom and pop neighbourhood stores and an occasional supermarket. Most were poor credit risks, only marginally profitable at best.
At 7:00 A.M. Jimmy stocked the shelves of his rattly company van with a variety of candy bars-coconut, peanut, peppermint-both chewy and soft. The rule was that he'd be stuck with what didn't sell unless he traded it with another driver.
In a few weeks, several store owners had befriended Jimmy and favoured him with the bulk of their candy businessAmong them was Gus Fantas, a small, beaming, friendly man in his early forties who owned a tiny, sparsely stocked, rinky-dink convenience store in the middle of the black belt. Gus was one of those who let Jimmy make up his orders for him.
Whatever you think I need is okay with me, he'

d say. How much do I owe?
Gus would push the NO SALE key on the cash register, withdraw a fistful of cash, and count out the desired amount of bills with a fl

ourish, making sure that Jimmy saw how flush he was. Gus's store, which Jimmy visited every Thursday, was his favorite stop. He and Gus had such congenial talks he found it hard to tear himself away for the next

call. They talked about a range of subjects: the economy, Gus's war experiences, Jimmy's long-range plans and women. Gus was a true man of experience, informed and wise.
I've got to go, Gus, Jimmy would say, still lingering. I've got to go.
Jimmy, you got it made, Gus said.
What do you mean? Jimmy asked.
The niggers go crazy over your peanut bars. 'Course it's junk but it fills 'em up.
Are you saying the customers are eating candy instead of real food? Jimmy asked. He emphasized customer because the word nigger bothered him.
Hey, Jimmy, where you been? The niggers don't have enough money for real food. See the dust on those cans of vegetables. Your candy moves ten times as fast which is okay with me. I make more money on the candy anyway.
That's not right, Gus. You shouldn't encourage them to eat so much of my stuff.
You want to sell, don't you? Get wise, Jimmy, unless you want to finish last.
On the second Thursday in August Jimmy made up Gus's order as usual. Gus pushed the NO SALE key on the cash register but this time the bill sections were empty.
Christ, Jimmy, I forgot to go to the bank for cash this morning. How about a cheque this time?
I'm sorry, Gus, but cheques are against the rules. The company won't take them.
Well, that's too bad. I s'pose you'll just have to take back the candy.
I don't want to do that, Gus.
I know you don't, Jimmy. You're a real friend. But I wouldn't expect you to break company rules.
Well, I could take your cheque but I'd have to cover it personally.
You mean you'd do that, Jimmy?
If it bounced I'd be responsible.
You have my word. My check's as strong as steel. You've got nothing to worry about.

ALL THAT GLITTERS

His first summer at college, Jimmy operated a candy route on the south side of Chicago.
I'd like to make one thing clear, said the boss the day he hired Jimmy. If you extend credit to anyone, it's your responsibility, your neck. We'll take any delinquencies out of your bond, see?
The customers were small mom and pop neighbourhood stores and an occasional supermarket. Most were poor credit risks, only marginally profitable at best.
At 7:00 A.M. Jimmy stocked the shelves of his rattly company van with a variety of candy bars-coconut, peanut, peppermint-both chewy and soft. The rule was that he'd be stuck with what didn't sell unless he traded it with another driver.
In a few weeks, several store owners had befriended Jimmy and favoured him with the bulk of their candy businessAmong them was Gus Fantas, a small, beaming, friendly man in his early forties who owned a tiny, sparsely stocked, rinky-dink convenience store in the middle of the black belt. Gus was one of those who let Jimmy make up his orders for him.
Whatever you think I need is okay with me, he'

d say. How much do I owe?
Gus would push the NO SALE key on the cash register, withdraw a fistful of cash, and count out the desired amount of bills with a fl

ourish, making sure that Jimmy saw how flush he was. Gus's store, which Jimmy visited every Thursday, was his favorite stop. He and Gus had such congenial talks he found it hard to tear himself away for the next

call. They talked about a range of subjects: the economy, Gus's war experiences, Jimmy's long-range plans and women. Gus was a true man of experience, informed and wise.
I've got to go, Gus, Jimmy would say, still lingering. I've got to go.
Jimmy, you got it made, Gus said.
What do you mean? Jimmy asked.
The niggers go crazy over your peanut bars. 'Course it's junk but it fills 'em up.
Are you saying the customers are eating candy instead of real food? Jimmy asked. He emphasized customer because the word nigger bothered him.
Hey, Jimmy, where you been? The niggers don't have enough money for real food. See the dust on those cans of vegetables. Your candy moves ten times as fast which is okay with me. I make more money on the candy anyway.
That's not right, Gus. You shouldn't encourage them to eat so much of my stuff.
You want to sell, don't you? Get wise, Jimmy, unless you want to finish last.
On the second Thursday in August Jimmy made up Gus's order as usual. Gus pushed the NO SALE key on the cash register but this time the bill sections were empty.
Christ, Jimmy, I forgot to go to the bank for cash this morning. How about a cheque this time?
I'm sorry, Gus, but cheques are against the rules. The company won't take them.
Well, that's too bad. I s'pose you'll just have to take back the candy.
I don't want to do that, Gus.
I know you don't, Jimmy. You're a real friend. But I wouldn't expect you to break company rules.
Well, I could take your cheque but I'd have to cover it personally.
You mean you'd do that, Jimmy?
If it bounced I'd be responsible.
You have my word. My check's as strong as steel. You've got nothing to worry about.

ALL THAT GLITTERS

His first summer at college, Jimmy operated a candy route on the south side of Chicago.
I'd like to make one thing clear, said the boss the day he hired Jimmy. If you extend credit to anyone, it's your responsibility, your neck. We'll take any delinquencies out of your bond, see?
The customers were small mom and pop neighbourhood stores and an occasional supermarket. Most were poor credit risks, only marginally profitable at best.
At 7:00 A.M. Jimmy stocked the shelves of his rattly company van with a variety of candy bars-coconut, peanut, peppermint-both chewy and soft. The rule was that he'd be stuck with what didn't sell unless he traded it with another driver.
In a few weeks, several store owners had befriended Jimmy and favoured him with the bulk of their candy businessAmong them was Gus Fantas, a small, beaming, friendly man in his early forties who owned a tiny, sparsely stocked, rinky-dink convenience store in the middle of the black belt. Gus was one of those who let Jimmy make up his orders for him.
Whatever you think I need is okay with me, he'

d say. How much do I owe?
Gus would push the NO SALE key on the cash register, withdraw a fistful of cash, and count out the desired amount of bills with a fl

ourish, making sure that Jimmy saw how flush he was. Gus's store, which Jimmy visited every Thursday, was his favorite stop. He and Gus had such congenial talks he found it hard to tear himself away for the next

call. They talked about a range of subjects: the economy, Gus's war experiences, Jimmy's long-range plans and women. Gus was a true man of experience, informed and wise.
I've got to go, Gus, Jimmy would say, still lingering. I've got to go.
Jimmy, you got it made, Gus said.
What do you mean? Jimmy asked.
The niggers go crazy over your peanut bars. 'Course it's junk but it fills 'em up.
Are you saying the customers are eating candy instead of real food? Jimmy asked. He emphasized customer because the word nigger bothered him.
Hey, Jimmy, where you been? The niggers don't have enough money for real food. See the dust on those cans of vegetables. Your candy moves ten times as fast which is okay with me. I make more money on the candy anyway.
That's not right, Gus. You shouldn't encourage them to eat so much of my stuff.
You want to sell, don't you? Get wise, Jimmy, unless you want to finish last.
On the second Thursday in August Jimmy made up Gus's order as usual. Gus pushed the NO SALE key on the cash register but this time the bill sections were empty.
Christ, Jimmy, I forgot to go to the bank for cash this morning. How about a cheque this time?
I'm sorry, Gus, but cheques are against the rules. The company won't take them.
Well, that's too bad. I s'pose you'll just have to take back the candy.
I don't want to do that, Gus.
I know you don't, Jimmy. You're a real friend. But I wouldn't expect you to break company rules.
Well, I could take your cheque but I'd have to cover it personally.
You mean you'd do that, Jimmy?
If it bounced I'd be responsible.
You have my word. My check's as strong as steel. You've got nothing to worry about.

ALL THAT GLITTERS

His first summer at college, Jimmy operated a candy route on the south side of Chicago.
I'd like to make one thing clear, said the boss the day he hired Jimmy. If you extend credit to anyone, it's your responsibility, your neck. We'll take any delinquencies out of your bond, see?
The customers were small mom and pop neighbourhood stores and an occasional supermarket. Most were poor credit risks, only marginally profitable at best.
At 7:00 A.M. Jimmy stocked the shelves of his rattly company van with a variety of candy bars-coconut, peanut, peppermint-both chewy and soft. The rule was that he'd be stuck with what didn't sell unless he traded it with another driver.
In a few weeks, several store owners had befriended Jimmy and favoured him with the bulk of their candy businessAmong them was Gus Fantas, a small, beaming, friendly man in his early forties who owned a tiny, sparsely stocked, rinky-dink convenience store in the middle of the black belt. Gus was one of those who let Jimmy make up his orders for him.
Whatever you think I need is okay with me, he'

d say. How much do I owe?
Gus would push the NO SALE key on the cash register, withdraw a fistful of cash, and count out the desired amount of bills with a fl

ourish, making sure that Jimmy saw how flush he was. Gus's store, which Jimmy visited every Thursday, was his favorite stop. He and Gus had such congenial talks he found it hard to tear himself away for the next

call. They talked about a range of subjects: the economy, Gus's war experiences, Jimmy's long-range plans and women. Gus was a true man of experience, informed and wise.
I've got to go, Gus, Jimmy would say, still lingering. I've got to go.
Jimmy, you got it made, Gus said.
What do you mean? Jimmy asked.
The niggers go crazy over your peanut bars. 'Course it's junk but it fills 'em up.
Are you saying the customers are eating candy instead of real food? Jimmy asked. He emphasized customer because the word nigger bothered him.
Hey, Jimmy, where you been? The niggers don't have enough money for real food. See the dust on those cans of vegetables. Your candy moves ten times as fast which is okay with me. I make more money on the candy anyway.
That's not right, Gus. You shouldn't encourage them to eat so much of my stuff.
You want to sell, don't you? Get wise, Jimmy, unless you want to finish last.
On the second Thursday in August Jimmy made up Gus's order as usual. Gus pushed the NO SALE key on the cash register but this time the bill sections were empty.
Christ, Jimmy, I forgot to go to the bank for cash this morning. How about a cheque this time?
I'm sorry, Gus, but cheques are against the rules. The company won't take them.
Well, that's too bad. I s'pose you'll just have to take back the candy.
I don't want to do that, Gus.
I know you don't, Jimmy. You're a real friend. But I wouldn't expect you to break company rules.
Well, I could take your cheque but I'd have to cover it personally.
You mean you'd do that, Jimmy?
If it bounced I'd be responsible.
You have my word. My check's as strong as steel. You've got nothing to worry about.

ALL THAT GLITTERS

His first summer at college, Jimmy operated a candy route on the south side of Chicago.
I'd like to make one thing clear, said the boss the day he hired Jimmy. If you extend credit to anyone, it's your responsibility, your neck. We'll take any delinquencies out of your bond, see?
The customers were small mom and pop neighbourhood stores and an occasional supermarket. Most were poor credit risks, only marginally profitable at best.
At 7:00 A.M. Jimmy stocked the shelves of his rattly company van with a variety of candy bars-coconut, peanut, peppermint-both chewy and soft. The rule was that he'd be stuck with what didn't sell unless he traded it with another driver.
In a few weeks, several store owners had befriended Jimmy and favoured him with the bulk of their candy businessAmong them was Gus Fantas, a small, beaming, friendly man in his early forties who owned a tiny, sparsely stocked, rinky-dink convenience store in the middle of the black belt. Gus was one of those who let Jimmy make up his orders for him.
Whatever you think I need is okay with me, he'

d say. How much do I owe?
Gus would push the NO SALE key on the cash register, withdraw a fistful of cash, and count out the desired amount of bills with a fl

ourish, making sure that Jimmy saw how flush he was. Gus's store, which Jimmy visited every Thursday, was his favorite stop. He and Gus had such congenial talks he found it hard to tear himself away for the next

call. They talked about a range of subjects: the economy, Gus's war experiences, Jimmy's long-range plans and women. Gus was a true man of experience, informed and wise.
I've got to go, Gus, Jimmy would say, still lingering. I've got to go.
Jimmy, you got it made, Gus said.
What do you mean? Jimmy asked.
The niggers go crazy over your peanut bars. 'Course it's junk but it fills 'em up.
Are you saying the customers are eating candy instead of real food? Jimmy asked. He emphasized customer because the word nigger bothered him.
Hey, Jimmy, where you been? The niggers don't have enough money for real food. See the dust on those cans of vegetables. Your candy moves ten times as fast which is okay with me. I make more money on the candy anyway.
That's not right, Gus. You shouldn't encourage them to eat so much of my stuff.
You want to sell, don't you? Get wise, Jimmy, unless you want to finish last.
On the second Thursday in August Jimmy made up Gus's order as usual. Gus pushed the NO SALE key on the cash register but this time the bill sections were empty.
Christ, Jimmy, I forgot to go to the bank for cash this morning. How about a cheque this time?
I'm sorry, Gus, but cheques are against the rules. The company won't take them.
Well, that's too bad. I s'pose you'll just have to take back the candy.
I don't want to do that, Gus.
I know you don't, Jimmy. You're a real friend. But I wouldn't expect you to break company rules.
Well, I could take your cheque but I'd have to cover it personally.
You mean you'd do that, Jimmy?
If it bounced I'd be responsible.
You have my word. My check's as strong as steel. You've got nothing to worry about.

ALL THAT GLITTERS

His first summer at college, Jimmy operated a candy route on the south side of Chicago.
I'd like to make one thing clear, said the boss the day he hired Jimmy. If you extend credit to anyone, it's your responsibility, your neck. We'll take any delinquencies out of your bond, see?
The customers were small mom and pop neighbourhood stores and an occasional supermarket. Most were poor credit risks, only marginally profitable at best.
At 7:00 A.M. Jimmy stocked the shelves of his rattly company van with a variety of candy bars-coconut, peanut, peppermint-both chewy and soft. The rule was that he'd be stuck with what didn't sell unless he traded it with another driver.
In a few weeks, several store owners had befriended Jimmy and favoured him with the bulk of their candy businessAmong them was Gus Fantas, a small, beaming, friendly man in his early forties who owned a tiny, sparsely stocked, rinky-dink convenience store in the middle of the black belt. Gus was one of those who let Jimmy make up his orders for him.
Whatever you think I need is okay with me, he'

d say. How much do I owe?
Gus would push the NO SALE key on the cash register, withdraw a fistful of cash, and count out the desired amount of bills with a fl

ourish, making sure that Jimmy saw how flush he was. Gus's store, which Jimmy visited every Thursday, was his favorite stop. He and Gus had such congenial talks he found it hard to tear himself away for the next

call. They talked about a range of subjects: the economy, Gus's war experiences, Jimmy's long-range plans and women. Gus was a true man of experience, informed and wise.
I've got to go, Gus, Jimmy would say, still lingering. I've got to go.
Jimmy, you got it made, Gus said.
What do you mean? Jimmy asked.
The niggers go crazy over your peanut bars. 'Course it's junk but it fills 'em up.
Are you saying the customers are eating candy instead of real food? Jimmy asked. He emphasized customer because the word nigger bothered him.
Hey, Jimmy, where you been? The niggers don't have enough money for real food. See the dust on those cans of vegetables. Your candy moves ten times as fast which is okay with me. I make more money on the candy anyway.
That's not right, Gus. You shouldn't encourage them to eat so much of my stuff.
You want to sell, don't you? Get wise, Jimmy, unless you want to finish last.
On the second Thursday in August Jimmy made up Gus's order as usual. Gus pushed the NO SALE key on the cash register but this time the bill sections were empty.
Christ, Jimmy, I forgot to go to the bank for cash this morning. How about a cheque this time?
I'm sorry, Gus, but cheques are against the rules. The company won't take them.
Well, that's too bad. I s'pose you'll just have to take back the candy.
I don't want to do that, Gus.
I know you don't, Jimmy. You're a real friend. But I wouldn't expect you to break company rules.
Well, I could take your cheque but I'd have to cover it personally.
You mean you'd do that, Jimmy?
If it bounced I'd be responsible.
You have my word. My check's as strong as steel. You've got nothing to worry about.

ALL THAT GLITTERS

His first summer at college, Jimmy operated a candy route on the south side of Chicago.
I'd like to make one thing clear, said the boss the day he hired Jimmy. If you extend credit to anyone, it's your responsibility, your neck. We'll take any delinquencies out of your bond, see?
The customers were small mom and pop neighbourhood stores and an occasional supermarket. Most were poor credit risks, only marginally profitable at best.
At 7:00 A.M. Jimmy stocked the shelves of his rattly company van with a variety of candy bars-coconut, peanut, peppermint-both chewy and soft. The rule was that he'd be stuck with what didn't sell unless he traded it with another driver.
In a few weeks, several store owners had befriended Jimmy and favoured him with the bulk of their candy businessAmong them was Gus Fantas, a small, beaming, friendly man in his early forties who owned a tiny, sparsely stocked, rinky-dink convenience store in the middle of the black belt. Gus was one of those who let Jimmy make up his orders for him.
Whatever you think I need is okay with me, he'

d say. How much do I owe?
Gus would push the NO SALE key on the cash register, withdraw a fistful of cash, and count out the desired amount of bills with a fl

ourish, making sure that Jimmy saw how flush he was. Gus's store, which Jimmy visited every Thursday, was his favorite stop. He and Gus had such congenial talks he found it hard to tear himself away for the next

call. They talked about a range of subjects: the economy, Gus's war experiences, Jimmy's long-range plans and women. Gus was a true man of experience, informed and wise.
I've got to go, Gus, Jimmy would say, still lingering. I've got to go.
Jimmy, you got it made, Gus said.
What do you mean? Jimmy asked.
The niggers go crazy over your peanut bars. 'Course it's junk but it fills 'em up.
Are you saying the customers are eating candy instead of real food? Jimmy asked. He emphasized customer because the word nigger bothered him.
Hey, Jimmy, where you been? The niggers don't have enough money for real food. See the dust on those cans of vegetables. Your candy moves ten times as fast which is okay with me. I make more money on the candy anyway.
That's not right, Gus. You shouldn't encourage them to eat so much of my stuff.
You want to sell, don't you? Get wise, Jimmy, unless you want to finish last.
On the second Thursday in August Jimmy made up Gus's order as usual. Gus pushed the NO SALE key on the cash register but this time the bill sections were empty.
Christ, Jimmy, I forgot to go to the bank for cash this morning. How about a cheque this time?
I'm sorry, Gus, but cheques are against the rules. The company won't take them.
Well, that's too bad. I s'pose you'll just have to take back the candy.
I don't want to do that, Gus.
I know you don't, Jimmy. You're a real friend. But I wouldn't expect you to break company rules.
Well, I could take your cheque but I'd have to cover it personally.
You mean you'd do that, Jimmy?
If it bounced I'd be responsible.
You have my word. My check's as strong as steel. You've got nothing to worry about.

ALL THAT GLITTERS

His first summer at college, Jimmy operated a candy route on the south side of Chicago.
I'd like to make one thing clear, said the boss the day he hired Jimmy. If you extend credit to anyone, it's your responsibility, your neck. We'll take any delinquencies out of your bond, see?
The customers were small mom and pop neighbourhood stores and an occasional supermarket. Most were poor credit risks, only marginally profitable at best.
At 7:00 A.M. Jimmy stocked the shelves of his rattly company van with a variety of candy bars-coconut, peanut, peppermint-both chewy and soft. The rule was that he'd be stuck with what didn't sell unless he traded it with another driver.
In a few weeks, several store owners had befriended Jimmy and favoured him with the bulk of their candy businessAmong them was Gus Fantas, a small, beaming, friendly man in his early forties who owned a tiny, sparsely stocked, rinky-dink convenience store in the middle of the black belt. Gus was one of those who let Jimmy make up his orders for him.
Whatever you think I need is okay with me, he'

d say. How much do I owe?
Gus would push the NO SALE key on the cash register, withdraw a fistful of cash, and count out the desired amount of bills with a fl

ourish, making sure that Jimmy saw how flush he was. Gus's store, which Jimmy visited every Thursday, was his favorite stop. He and Gus had such congenial talks he found it hard to tear himself away for the next

call. They talked about a range of subjects: the economy, Gus's war experiences, Jimmy's long-range plans and women. Gus was a true man of experience, informed and wise.
I've got to go, Gus, Jimmy would say, still lingering. I've got to go.
Jimmy, you got it made, Gus said.
What do you mean? Jimmy asked.
The niggers go crazy over your peanut bars. 'Course it's junk but it fills 'em up.
Are you saying the customers are eating candy instead of real food? Jimmy asked. He emphasized customer because the word nigger bothered him.
Hey, Jimmy, where you been? The niggers don't have enough money for real food. See the dust on those cans of vegetables. Your candy moves ten times as fast which is okay with me. I make more money on the candy anyway.
That's not right, Gus. You shouldn't encourage them to eat so much of my stuff.
You want to sell, don't you? Get wise, Jimmy, unless you want to finish last.
On the second Thursday in August Jimmy made up Gus's order as usual. Gus pushed the NO SALE key on the cash register but this time the bill sections were empty.
Christ, Jimmy, I forgot to go to the bank for cash this morning. How about a cheque this time?
I'm sorry, Gus, but cheques are against the rules. The company won't take them.
Well, that's too bad. I s'pose you'll just have to take back the candy.
I don't want to do that, Gus.
I know you don't, Jimmy. You're a real friend. But I wouldn't expect you to break company rules.
Well, I could take your cheque but I'd have to cover it personally.
You mean you'd do that, Jimmy?
If it bounced I'd be responsible.
You have my word. My check's as strong as steel. You've got nothing to worry about.

ALL THAT GLITTERS

His first summer at college, Jimmy operated a candy route on the south side of Chicago.
I'd like to make one thing clear, said the boss the day he hired Jimmy. If you extend credit to anyone, it's your responsibility, your neck. We'll take any delinquencies out of your bond, see?
The customers were small mom and pop neighbourhood stores and an occasional supermarket. Most were poor credit risks, only marginally profitable at best.
At 7:00 A.M. Jimmy stocked the shelves of his rattly company van with a variety of candy bars-coconut, peanut, peppermint-both chewy and soft. The rule was that he'd be stuck with what didn't sell unless he traded it with another driver.
In a few weeks, several store owners had befriended Jimmy and favoured him with the bulk of their candy businessAmong them was Gus Fantas, a small, beaming, friendly man in his early forties who owned a tiny, sparsely stocked, rinky-dink convenience store in the middle of the black belt. Gus was one of those who let Jimmy make up his orders for him.
Whatever you think I need is okay with me, he'

d say. How much do I owe?
Gus would push the NO SALE key on the cash register, withdraw a fistful of cash, and count out the desired amount of bills with a fl

ourish, making sure that Jimmy saw how flush he was. Gus's store, which Jimmy visited every Thursday, was his favorite stop. He and Gus had such congenial talks he found it hard to tear himself away for the next

call. They talked about a range of subjects: the economy, Gus's war experiences, Jimmy's long-range plans and women. Gus was a true man of experience, informed and wise.
I've got to go, Gus, Jimmy would say, still lingering. I've got to go.
Jimmy, you got it made, Gus said.
What do you mean? Jimmy asked.
The niggers go crazy over your peanut bars. 'Course it's junk but it fills 'em up.
Are you saying the customers are eating candy instead of real food? Jimmy asked. He emphasized customer because the word nigger bothered him.
Hey, Jimmy, where you been? The niggers don't have enough money for real food. See the dust on those cans of vegetables. Your candy moves ten times as fast which is okay with me. I make more money on the candy anyway.
That's not right, Gus. You shouldn't encourage them to eat so much of my stuff.
You want to sell, don't you? Get wise, Jimmy, unless you want to finish last.
On the second Thursday in August Jimmy made up Gus's order as usual. Gus pushed the NO SALE key on the cash register but this time the bill sections were empty.
Christ, Jimmy, I forgot to go to the bank for cash this morning. How about a cheque this time?
I'm sorry, Gus, but cheques are against the rules. The company won't take them.
Well, that's too bad. I s'pose you'll just have to take back the candy.
I don't want to do that, Gus.
I know you don't, Jimmy. You're a real friend. But I wouldn't expect you to break company rules.
Well, I could take your cheque but I'd have to cover it personally.
You mean you'd do that, Jimmy?
If it bounced I'd be responsible.
You have my word. My check's as strong as steel. You've got nothing to worry about.

ALL THAT GLITTERS

His first summer at college, Jimmy operated a candy route on the south side of Chicago.
I'd like to make one thing clear, said the boss the day he hired Jimmy. If you extend credit to anyone, it's your responsibility, your neck. We'll take any delinquencies out of your bond, see?
The customers were small mom and pop neighbourhood stores and an occasional supermarket. Most were poor credit risks, only marginally profitable at best.
At 7:00 A.M. Jimmy stocked the shelves of his rattly company van with a variety of candy bars-coconut, peanut, peppermint-both chewy and soft. The rule was that he'd be stuck with what didn't sell unless he traded it with another driver.
In a few weeks, several store owners had befriended Jimmy and favoured him with the bulk of their candy businessAmong them was Gus Fantas, a small, beaming, friendly man in his early forties who owned a tiny, sparsely stocked, rinky-dink convenience store in the middle of the black belt. Gus was one of those who let Jimmy make up his orders for him.
Whatever you think I need is okay with me, he'

d say. How much do I owe?
Gus would push the NO SALE key on the cash register, withdraw a fistful of cash, and count out the desired amount of bills with a fl

ourish, making sure that Jimmy saw how flush he was. Gus's store, which Jimmy visited every Thursday, was his favorite stop. He and Gus had such congenial talks he found it hard to tear himself away for the next

call. They talked about a range of subjects: the economy, Gus's war experiences, Jimmy's long-range plans and women. Gus was a true man of experience, informed and wise.
I've got to go, Gus, Jimmy would say, still lingering. I've got to go.
Jimmy, you got it made, Gus said.
What do you mean? Jimmy asked.
The niggers go crazy over your peanut bars. 'Course it's junk but it fills 'em up.
Are you saying the customers are eating candy instead of real food? Jimmy asked. He emphasized customer because the word nigger bothered him.
Hey, Jimmy, where you been? The niggers don't have enough money for real food. See the dust on those cans of vegetables. Your candy moves ten times as fast which is okay with me. I make more money on the candy anyway.
That's not right, Gus. You shouldn't encourage them to eat so much of my stuff.
You want to sell, don't you? Get wise, Jimmy, unless you want to finish last.
On the second Thursday in August Jimmy made up Gus's order as usual. Gus pushed the NO SALE key on the cash register but this time the bill sections were empty.
Christ, Jimmy, I forgot to go to the bank for cash this morning. How about a cheque this time?
I'm sorry, Gus, but cheques are against the rules. The company won't take them.
Well, that's too bad. I s'pose you'll just have to take back the candy.
I don't want to do that, Gus.
I know you don't, Jimmy. You're a real friend. But I wouldn't expect you to break company rules.
Well, I could take your cheque but I'd have to cover it personally.
You mean you'd do that, Jimmy?
If it bounced I'd be responsible.
You have my word. My check's as strong as steel. You've got nothing to worry about.