“Cut out the comedy,” said Larry. “Any time I get a compliment from you or Joe, I know there’s a nigger in the woodpile somewhere.”
“The trouble with you is, you’re too modest,” said Joe. “When we do say something good about you, you think we’re only kidding.”
“I don’t think—I know,” replied Larry, grinning. “I suppose, though, that radio must be 187 pretty easy, or you fellows wouldn’t know so much about it.”
“That remark has all the appearance of a dirty dig,” said Bob. “But I suppose we can’t land on him until he gets entirely well, can we, Joe?”
“No, let him live a little while longer,” replied his friend. “We’ll get even for that knock, though, Larry, my boy.”
“I won’t lie awake at night worrying about it, anyway,” replied Larry. “But I’m not going to interfere with your work any more. Just go ahead as though I weren’t here, and I’ll try to learn something by watching what you do.”
Bob and Joe worked steadily then until Mrs. Layton called to them to come up to lunch.
“Toot! toot!” went Larry, imitating faithfully a factory whistle blowing for twelve o’clock. “Time to knock off, you laborers. If you work any longer I won’t let you belong to the union any more.”
“No danger of that,” said Bob. “I’ve been feeling hungry ever since ten o’clock, so I’m not going to lose any time now. Come on up and we’ll see what mother’s got for us.”
They found a lunch waiting for them that would have made a dyspeptic hungry, and they attacked it in a workmanlike manner that drew an approving comment from Mrs. Layton.