Bradley. Yes—judged from his togs it was your boy. What! Can it be? You! Thaddeus?
Perkins. That’s who I am.
Bradley. When did you go into short trousers?
Perkins (with a feeble laugh, glancing at his clothes). Oh, these—ha, ha! I’m taking up the bicycle. Even if it weren’t for the exhilaration of riding, it’s a luxury to wear these clothes. Old flannel shirt, old coat, old pair of trousers shortened to the knee, and golf stockings. I’ve had these golf stockings two years, and never had a chance to wear ’em till now.
Bradley. You’ve got it bad, haven’t you? How many lessons have you had?
Perkins. None yet. Fact is, just got my wheel—that’s it over there by the door—pneumatic tires, tool-chest, cyclometer, lamp—all for a hun.
Bradley (with a laugh). How about life-insurance? Do they throw in a policy for that? They ought to.
Perkins. No—but they would if I’d insisted. Competition between makers is so great, they’ll give you most anything to induce a bargain. The only thing they really gave me extra is the ki-yi gun.
Mrs. Perkins. The what?
Perkins. Ki-yi gun—it shoots dogs. Dog comes out, catches sight of your leg—