CHAPTER VII
YOU SHOULD WORRY ABOUT THE SERVANTS
When Peaches and I get tired of the Big Town—tired of its noises and hullabaloo; tired of being tagged by taxis as we cross a street; tired of watching grocers and butchers hoisting higher the highest cost of living—that's our cue to grab a choo-choo and breeze out to Uncle Peter Grant's farm and bungalow in the wilds of Westchester, which he calls Troolyrooral.
Just to even matters up Uncle Peter and his wife visit us from time to time in our amateur apartment in the Big Town.
Uncle Peter is a very stout old gentleman. When he squeezes into our little flat the walls act as if they were bow-legged.
Uncle Peter always goes through the folding doors sideways and every time he sits down the man in the apartment below us kicks because we move the piano so often.
Aunt Martha is Uncle Peter's wife and she weighs more and breathes oftener.
When the two of them visit our bird-cage at the same time the janitor has to go out and stand in front of the building with a view to catching it if it falls.