“Sure thing I’ll stand up with you,” I purposely tangled up his meaning. “What do you call it?—the best man, huh?”
“I mean, will you go back to Pardyville if I do?”
“Kid, I’d go to the North Pole, if you led the way—but that’s a blamed co-old place, I think, for a honeymoon.”
“Oh, you dumb-dora!” he gave up in despair.
“Say, Poppy,” I snickered, “look at old Ivory Dome. He’s scratching his sandwich and sprinkling pepper on his bald head.”
“Ivory Dome!” the other laughed, thinking, I guess, that I was pretty clever. “Ivor Doane—Ivory Dome! That’s a good one. He’s an ‘Ivory Dome,’ all right.”
Suddenly there was a wild volcanic eruption at the table. Over went the pitcher of water and the spoon holder. There was water and spoons all over the kitchen floor.
“For land’s sake!” cried the housekeeper, grabbing a sandwich out of the air. “Pa, I ought to take a stick to you. Just look at my clean floor!”
“Ker-r-choo!” exploded the volcano anew. “Ker-r-CHOO!”
“Stop it!” as the table rocked more madly than ever. Then by quick work the housekeeper saved the sugar bowl.