"I'm willing to scrimp and save for it, Edwin; but in the end I haven't got the say-so, and you know it."
"The boys that are going to college got to register now for the High School
College Society."
"Your father, Edwin, is the one to tell that to."
"Other fellers' mothers put in a word for 'em."
"I do, Edwin; you know I do! It only aggravates him—There's papa now, Edwin, coming in. Help mamma dish up. Put this soup at papa's place and this at yours. There's only two plates left from last night."
In Mrs. Ross's dining-room, a red-glass dome, swung by a chain over the round table, illuminated its white napery and decently flowered china. Beside the window looking out upon a gray-brick wall almost within reach, a canary with a white-fluted curtain about the cage dozed headless. Beside that window, covered in flowered chintz, a sewing-machine that could collapse to a table; a golden-oak sideboard laid out in pressed glassware. A homely simplicity here saved by chance or chintz from the simply homely.
Mr. Harry Ross drew up immediately beside the spread table, jerking open his newspaper and, head thrown back, read slantingly down at the head-lines.
"Hello, pop!"
"Hello, son!"
"Watch out!"