“I don’t understand–I–Joey–”
Another hug, “Of course, you don’t. You’re just two years out of date. You’ve been living among the dead and you think everybody’s dead and I’m going to–”
“You’re not going to Ruth Jillett’s, Joey–”
“Well, I certainly will if you don’t get me some supper. How about that, Sport? Here I am come home a rich man with three hundred dollars in my pocket, and no supper.”
“Joey, if I had only known I’d have made a meat pie. I won’t believe you’re real till I see you eat, Joey.” That would be a good test.
“We won’t eat here many more times–”
“Oh yes, we will. I’ve got three hundred dollars, and two hundred of it belongs to some boy scouts. They made me take it as a loan. We’re going to stay right here and I’m going to get a job in Cartersburgh and I’m coming home every night–so as to be near Ruth. Hey, Sport.”
Poor old Mrs. Haskell only clung tighter to him. And Sport looked up, and kept looking, as if he did not understand at all.
And so, as the evening drew on, these two, mother and son, sat in the little kitchen of their old home and talked while Joe ate his supper; a very good supper indeed for a “sperit.” And since it was a matter of eating, may we not fancy that the staunch spirit of Pee-wee Harris of the raving Ravens was with them as they talked late into the night? And when Joey Haskell jollied his poor old mother (as he did most shamefully) may we not picture that diminutive scout saying in high disgust, “You think you’re smart, don’t you?”
And yet, you know, you will hear it said that nothing ever happens in Hicksville....