"Never get indigestion," said Julian complacently. "My stomach knows who's boss."
"We were the same when we were boys," Mr. Payton said. "Tarquin Tuckertown and I. We had a griddlecake eating contest once, I recollect. I managed to eat twenty-two. But Tark, Tark Tuckertown ate thirty! Strange," he said, taking out his pipe to fill it. "I have never, since that day, been tempted by a griddlecake."
Mrs. Cheever thought it might be nice to change the subject. "How is Foster, the dear little chap?" she asked.
"He's worried because he isn't losing any teeth," Portia told her.
"Well, there's a new wrinkle!" said Mr. Payton, tamping down tobacco with his thumb. "People's problems differ, for a fact."
They watched the ritual of getting the pipe to start. Mr. Payton kept drawing on it, sucking in his cheeks, then putt-putting with his lips, as he held first one match flame, then another, to the bowl. At last a red glow curled and crinkled the tobacco grains. A comfortable fragrance of smoke was added to the other fragrances of the kitchen.
Julian loosened his belt one notch and sighed with satisfaction.
"Aunt Minnehaha, that was suave," he said. "Suave" was a word he had picked up during the winter. It performed the same service as his other words of approval, "keen," "neat," and "nifty," and was in frequent use.
"You ought to be able to make it to suppertime, now," Portia commented loftily.
"Listen to you; you sound about forty-five," Julian said, unperturbed and grinning.