“I’ll pack them up when I get back,” Pee-wee replied.
“No, you’ll pack them up again now and you’ll pick up that great slice of greasy bacon from the rug. The idea of putting that in a shoe box! I want—”
“Listen! Listen!” said Pee-wee, munching a fig which had fallen out of an empty compartment of his writing case. “I’ve got a dandy argument—listen, I—”
“Don’t talk with your mouth full, Walter.”
“Listen, you want me to remember to wear the sweater every night, don’t you? Don’t you? You said you did, so don’t you?”
“I want you to pick up—”
“I tell you what I’ll do,” Pee-wee vociferated. “The thing that I like best here is doughnuts, isn’t it? You admit I like doughnuts best, don’t you? You said I could ask Martha—”
“I never told Martha to give you a whole pail full of them; why they’ll be all stale—”
“Listen,” said Pee-wee. “I’ll take them out of the pail and wrap them up in the sweater and every time I want one, I’ll have to go to the sweater and gee whiz, that means about every hour, you ask Townsend when he comes, and besides I always—always—eat one right after supper at night, so I’ll have to go to the sweater, won’t I? And that’ll remind me to put it on, won’t it? So now can I go to Westwood?”
“What do you want to go to Westwood for, Walter?”