“HOW are you going to get back to Massachusetts, Priddy?” asked Thropper when I was shuffling some photographs which I had taken down from a wire rack on the wall.
“Oh, I’ll have to try to get work in a factory or on a farm about here,” I answered, “until I earn my fare!”
“Have you any definite work planned for, yet?”
“No, but I thought I’d go out this afternoon and see what I might pick up. I could keep this room and board myself, Thropper.”
He made a wry face, and blurted out:
“Warmed over canned beans, ugh!”
“What do you mean, old fellow?”
“Boarding yourself—canned soups, canned meats, canned everything—ugh!”
“That’s what your wife will feed you on—at first, while she learns to cook, Thropper,” I laughed. “Perhaps you’ll prefer canned things!”
“Is that so?” he retorted, with some show of heat. “Well, that’s all you know about things. She can cook already: you just wait till you taste some of her cooking. Canned things—ugh!”