"Huh! What's that only-son stuff you gave me yesterday? All about how you had to land a job in the city and make good after your old man died, eh? How about your yesterday's line of talk?"
"I—"
"All about how mother's wandering boy found himself all plastered over with the mortgage and worked nights to get out from under. All about—Aw, say, what's the use? But I always say to you fellows, 'Boys, cultivate good memories; you need 'em.' Little brother! Ha, joke!"
"I—aw—I—Little brother's what we call my sister Till's little red-headed kid. Aw, what—what you want to put me in bad for, sister? I'm not so easy to trip up as you think I am."
"Little brother! And say, that's a bottle of malted milk there in your pocket that you're taking out to him, ain't it? Sure it is."
"This? Aw, this—Say, you haven't got those snappy black eyes of yours for nothing, have you? This bottle here in my pocket, aw, this—this is a—bottle of brandy for my old woman. First snow flurry and her left foot begins to drag like a rag with rheumatism."
Her laughter rose, and his confusion with it.
"Sure," she cried.
"Aw—aw, come on, Marjie."
"Well, of all the nerve! My name's private property, it is."