“When I was a little kid I could stick my finger up my nose up to the knuckle,” Horton informed me. I pursed my lips, searched for the appropriate response, ended up just saying “Really?”
“Yes.” he paused. “I could still do it if you made it worth my while.” I looked up from my newspaper. “Is that so, Horton?”
“What is the going worth of your while?”
“I dunno – something good and tasty. Like a bag of chupa-chups. A whole bag.” I looked at him. He was deadly earnest.
It would be a change of pace from the Wall Street Journal.