"You've got something on you that doesn't smell very good. Come with—"
"Doesn't smell very good!" repeated Mr. Cane sarcastically. "Of all the feeble language! I can describe it for you in one short word!"
"Sam-u-el! Don't be vulgar! You run along to the bathroom, Sube. We'll try a little ammonia."
"Ammonia!" jeered Mr. Cane. "Am-mo-nia! You'd better boil him in muriatic acid and bury him for three weeks! A little ammonia," he repeated as he stood up and opened another window. Then his curiosity got the better of him. "Sube," he called, "I want to ask you a few questions—but you needn't come back here! Stop right there where you are."
A scowl of suspicion came over Sube's face as he halted and turned towards the author of his existence.
"Where have you been this evening?" his father began.
"Nowheres—jus' playin' round."
"Round where? Round what?"
"Jus' round here everyplace. I couldn't tell—"
"Well, tell me one place."