"Mother says I—I can go if only you—"
"Your mother'd say you could have the moon, too, if she had to climb a greased pole to get it. She'd start weaving door-mats for the Cingalese Hottentots if she thought they needed 'em."
"But, Harry, he—"
"Your mother 'ain't got the bills of this shebang to worry about, and your mother don't mind having a college sissy a-laying around the house to support five years longer. I do."
"It's the free City College, pop."
"You got a better education now than nine boys out of ten. If you ain't man enough to want to get out after four years of high school and hustle for a living, you got to be shown the way out. I started when I was in short pants, and you're no better than your father. Your mother sold notions and axle-grease in an up-State general store up to the day she married. Now cut out the college talk you been springing on me lately. I won't have it—you hear? You're a poor man's son, and the sooner you make up your mind to it the better. Pass the chow-chow, mother."
Nervousness had laid hold of her so that in and out among the dishes her hand trembled.
"You see, Harry, it's the free City College, and—"
"I know that free talk. So was high school free when you talked me into it, but if it ain't one thing it's been another. Cadet uniform, football suit—"
"The child's got talent for invention, Harry; his manual-training teacher told me his air-ship model was—"