“We used to get it three times a week,” said Lyn. “Now it’s only twice.”
“When I was a boy,” said See thoughtfully, “I always wanted to rob a stage, just once. Somehow or other I never got round to it.” His brow clouded.
“Why, Mr. See!”
“Charlie,” said Mr. See. “Well, you needn’t be shocked. Society is very unevenly divided between the criminal and the non-criminal classes.”
“That,” said Edith, “might be called a spiral remark. Would it be impertinent to ask you to specify?”
“Not at all. Superfluous. See for yourself. Old Sobersides, here—you might give him the benefit of the doubt—he’s so durned practical. But Adam and me, Uncle Dan and your Dad—there’s no doubt about us, I’m afraid. It’s right quaint to see how proud those old roosters are of the lurid past. When one of ’em gets on the peck, all you got to do is to start relatin’ how wild they used to be, and they’ll be eatin’ out of your hand in no time. They ought to be ashamed of themselves—silly old donkeys!”
“How about the women?” asked Lyn.
“I’ve never been able to make a guess. But there’s so few of you out here at the world’s end, that you don’t count for much, either way.”
“Lyn realizes that,” said Hobby. “Here at the ragged edge of things she knows that the men outnumber the women five to one. So she tries to make up for it. She is a friendly soul.”
Miss Lyn Dyer ignored this little speech and harked back to the last observation of Charlie See. “So you did manage to notice that, did you? I’m surprised. They’ve amused me for years—Uncle Dan and Uncle Pete; how mean they were, the wild old days and the chimes at midnight! But a girl—oh, dear me, how very different! No hoydens need apply! A notably unwild boy is reproached as a sissy and regarded with suspicion, but a girl must not even play at being wild. ‘Prunes, prisms and potatoes!’ Podsnap! Pecksniff! Turveydrop and Company! Doesn’t anyone ever realize that it might be a tame business never to be wild at all?”