"Cooks are sometimes very peculiar," observed Mr. Stott, buttering his pancakes lavishly. "I remember that my mother—my mother, by the way, Mr. Penrose, was a Sproat——"
"Shoat?" Old Mr. Penrose, who complained of a pounding in his ears, was not hearing so well in the high altitude.
Mr. Appel and Pinkey tittered, which nettled Mr. Stott and he shouted:
"Sproat! An old Philadelphia family."
"Oh, yes," Mr. Penrose recollected. "I recall Amanda Sproat—she married a stevedore. Your sister?"
Mr. Stott chose to ignore the inquiry, and said coldly:
"My father was in public life." He might have added that his father was a policeman, and therefore his statement was no exaggeration.
Everybody felt that it served Mr. Penrose right for telling about the stevedore when he was seized with a violent fit of coughing immediately afterward. Wiping his streaming eyes, he looked from Wallie to Pinkey and declared resentfully:
"This is the result of your reckless driving. The cork came out of my cough syrup in the suitcase. The only way I can get relief from the irritation is to apply my tongue to the puddle. I shall have to lick my valise until I can have the prescription refilled in Prouty."
The culprits mumbled that they "were sorry," to which Mr. Penrose replied disagreeably that that did not keep him from "coughing his head off!"