"Not going to," he answered guiltily. "Looking to see what size hat I wear. Fumed eggs," he concluded triumphantly.
He was not again left alone. The waster came back and supposed he would do some golfing "over across."
Bean loathed golf and gathered the strange power to say so.
"Sooner be a mail-carrier than a golf-player," he answered stoutly. "Looks more fun, anyway."
"My word!" exclaimed the waster, "aren't you even keen on watching it?"
"Sooner watch a lot of Italians tearing up a street-car track," Bean persisted.
"Oh, come!" protested the waster.
"Like to have another fumed egg," said Bean.
"You've had one too many," declared the waster, knowing that no sober man could speak thus of the sport of kings.
Grandma, the Demon, entered and portentously shook hands with him. She seemed to have discovered that marriage was very serious.