“They’re juss kiddin, they wont hurt him,” whispered Skinny.
Iky was carried kicking and bawling down towards the pond, his white tearwet face upside down. “He’s not a Jew at all,” said Skinny. “But I’ll tell you who is a Jew, that big bully Fat Swanson.”
“Howjer know?”
“His roommate told me.”
“Gee whiz they’re going to do it.”
They ran in all directions. Little Harris with his hair full of mud was crawling up the bank, water running out of his coatsleeves.
There was hot chocolate sauce with the icecream. “An Irishman and a Scotchman were walking down the street and the Irishman said to the Scotchman; Sandy let’s have a drink....” A prolonged ringing at the front door bell was making them inattentive to Uncle Jeff’s story. The colored maid flurried back into the diningroom and began whispering in Aunt Emily’s ear. “... And the Scotchman said, Mike ... Why what’s the matter?”
“It’s Mr. Joe sir.”
“The hell it is.”
“Well maybe he’s all right,” said Aunt Emily hastily.