"I think you'll admit . . ." I began, sternly.
"I won't admit anything, George, if you're going to adopt that lecturing attitude. Give it up! It irritates me. Is it a lifelong habit or have you acquired it only since I came to live with you?"
With a thoughtful and ominous precision, I filled my pipe and lit it.
"Thank you!" said Gran'pa, extending his hand.
"I beg your pardon!" I replied, frigidly giving him my pouch.
"Now, George!"
For five or six more awful seconds I kept my face straight and dignified. Then I gave way. I couldn't help it. I laughed—and laughed—and laughed. That vision of Gran'pa, coming down the Avenue on his scooter, reminded me of a performing ape, I had once seen, careering round the Coliseum stage on a tiny motor cycle. I thought of the face of the Baptist minister's wife, three doors further down the street. I thought of the patch of oily messiness on the pavement outside. And I thought of all the serious nonsense we had gone through to bring about this sudden spurt of venturesomeness in poor old Gran'pa.
"Why—did you—do it?" I gurgled.
"Come, come, George! Do pull yourself together."
I quietened down a little and wiped my eyes.