“How does she have the asparagus, Lem?”
“Well, she has it in stalks—big, white stalks—with a kind of sauce on it. It's good. It's mighty good. An' she has ham an' eggs an' beefsteak an' sausage an' pancakes for breakfast. With maple syrup.”
“Ham an' eggs an'' beefsteak an' sausage?”
“Yes.”
Saint Harvey would emit a long, tremulous sigh and close his eyes. Sometimes when Lem told of a Sunday dinner Saint Harvey would turn quite pale, and groan. Then he would get up and walk back and forth, gasping and swallowing and working his jaws and licking his lips.
“I don't want all this sandwich. You can have it,” Lem would say sometimes. “You ought to be hungry; nothin' but bread an'—”
“You get out o' here! You scoot out o' here!” his father would cry, reaching for something to use as a club, and then Lem would go.
Nor was Lem the only trial the good saint had. The Russian Jew, Moses Shuder, would not leave him alone, and no one could anger good Saint Harvey as Shuder could. His very meekness angered Saint Harvey.
Moses Shuder would come to the junkyard, meek and apologetic, dry-washing his hands against his chest, with his crushed hat on his head—the hat itself a reminder of Saint Harvey's anger—and plead with Harvey to sell him or lease him the junkyard.
“Please, Misder Redink, I vant only to talk to you. Please, you should not get a mad at me—