"Down to the circus," says Ma. "In the Bear-wrestler's dressing room. I went to call on some of the folks and get the news and Madame Jones, the new automobile act—very distinguished lady—got me to it. A most exclusive affair, with only the highest priced acts invited!"
"And who spoke?" I says.
"Kiskoff, the bear-wrestler," says Ma. "It certainly was interesting."
"What did he say?" I says, it getting harder and harder to remember I was a lady and she my only mother. "What did he say?"
"I dunno!" says Ma.
"You don't know!" I fairly yells. "And why don't you know?"
"Because he only talks Russian!" says Ma, and walked out, leaving me flat.
Well, believe you me, I was that upset I scarcely took any notice of my lunch, although it was a real nice meal, commencing with some juicy kind of fish and eggs and ending up with pancakes rolled up and filled with cream curds and powdered sugar.
Ma took to these eats immensely, and she and Anna exchanged a couple of smiles, which made me feel like the only living American. And when later in the day Ma told me she thought she'd join the Bolshevists if she didn't have to be immersed, and that this Kiskoff's life was in danger for his beliefs just like the early Romans and nobody knew where he lived, but was a man of mystery, I couldn't stand it another moment, but beat it for a long walk by myself because my nerves was sure on edge and that aeroplane stunt facing me next week.
But the walk wasn't altogether pleasant, at least not at the start or at the finish, because when I come out of our palatial near-marble front stoop, there was a guy standing which might just as well of had on the brass-buttons and all because you could tell at once by the disguise that he was a plain-clothes cop. Not that I am so familiar with them, but their clothes is generally so plain any one could tell them. Do you get me? You do!