"But you—how can you do it?" Celeste marveled. "Me, I would urge them on. Few would have the patriotism...."
"Patriotism, hell! If that were all, I would have stirred up a revolution long ago. It's for the boys, in years to come. They've got to keep their noses clean, too. Get your notebook, please, and take this down. Rough draft—I'm going to polish it up until it has teeth and claws in every line."
And that evening, after supper, he informed Eunice of all the new developments.
"Is it still O.K. with you," he concluded, "for me to get myself fired off of this high-salaried job of mine?"
"Certainly. Being you, how can you do anything else? Oh, how I wish I could wring their necks!" That conversation went on and on, but additional details are not necessary here.
Shortly after two o'clock of the following afternoon, Celeste took a call; and listened shamelessly.
"Kinnison speaking."
"Tug, Uncle Ralph. The casts sectioned just like we thought they would. Dead ringers for Plate D. So Drake hung a red ticket on every tray. Piddy was right there, waiting, and started to raise hell. So I chipped in, and he beat it so fast that I looked to see his coat-tail catch fire. Drake didn't quite like to call you, so I did. If Piddy keeps on going at the rate he left here, he'll be in Keller's office in nothing flat."
"O.K., Tug. Tell Drake that the shell he rejected are going to stay rejected, and to come in right now with his report. Would you like to come along?"
"Would I!" Tugwell hung up and: