“How soon after you’re dead?”
His father glared at him and William cautiously withdrew into silence. A few minutes later, however, he emerged from it.
“Seems sort of funny to me,” he remarked meditatively, to no one in particular, “that we don’t have one. Neely everyone else I know’s got a car. They’re an awful savin’ in bus tickets an’ shoes an’ things. Seems to me sort of wrong to keep spendin’ money on bus tickets an’ shoes when we could save it so easy by buyin’ a car.”
No one was taking any notice of him. They were discussing an artist who had taken The Limes furnished for a month. Robert, William’s nineteen-year-old brother, was saying, “One daughter, I know, I saw her at the window.” William continued undaunted:
“We’d jus’ want a man to look after it that’s all an’ I could easy get that for you. I know a man what’s good at lookin’ after ’em an’ I could get him for you. An’ they’re cheap enough. Why, someone told me about someone what knew someone what got one for jus’ a few pounds—an ole one, of course, but they’re jus’ as good as new ones—only a bit older, of course. The ones what were made when first they was invented must be goin’ quite cheap now an’ one of them’d do quite all right for us—jus’ to save us ’bus tickets an’ shoes—with a man to look after it. Ginger an’ me’d paint it up an’ it would be as good as new. Shouldn’t be surprised,” with rising cheerfulness, “if you could get an ole one—a really ole one—for jus’ a few shillin’s an’ Ginger’n me’d paint it for you and this man’d mend it up for you an’ drive it for you an——”
There was a sudden lull in the general conversation and his mother said:
“Do get on with your lunch, William. What are you talking about?”
“About this car,” said William doggedly.
“What car?”
“This car of ours. Well, this man——”