P.S. But I don’t. I hate it.
XXIV
THE HOLD-UP
ALLEN BLYNN’S smile at breakfast that morning was quite Pestalozzian. The mother looked across at him with much the same seraphic glow, simply reflected.
“Just listen to this from Gorgas, mother. It’s a perfect little bit of satire. Oh, this is rich!” He read with outright joy.
“I like thee, master, for thy fingers pink
That never once hath honest labor smeared;
I like thee for thy nose’s Roman kink,
But Zooks! I love that waggle, waggle beard!”
The mother was keen enough to see the cleverness and as well the poet’s criticism of her son’s tuft of beard.
“It is rather rough, my dear,” she looked over mildly.