Though Father felt an acute desire to climb upon a convenient carriage-block and punch the noble Roman head of Mr. Harris Hartwig, he kept silent and looked as meek as he could and encouraged his dear son-in-law to go on.
“We’ll try to find some decent, respectable work for you,” said Mr. Hartwig. “You’ll be at liberty to be away from the Old People’s Home for several hours a day, perfect freedom, and perhaps now and then you can help at a sale at a shoe-store. Saserkopee is, as you probably know, the best town of its size in New York, and if you did feel you had to keep in touch with business, I can’t for the life of me see why you came clear out here to the West—little dinky town with no prospects or nothing. Why even you, at your age, could turn a few dollars in Saserkopee. ’Course with my influence there I could throw things your way.” Then, bitterly, “Though of course I wouldn’t expect any thanks!”
They turned a corner, came to a row of new bungalows.
The whole block was filled with motor-cars, small black village ones, but very comfortable and dependable. In a bungalow at the end of the block a phonograph was being loud and cheery.
“Somebody giving a party,” Mr. Hartwig oracularly informed Father.
“Why! Sure enough! So somebody is! Yes, yes! It must be my boss. That’s where I live. Boss lets us bunk in the dust-bin.”
Father’s voice was excited, slightly hysterical. Mr. Hartwig looked at him wonderingly. “What do you mean, ‘in the dust-bin’?” he asked, in a puzzled way.
“I’ll show you,” said Father, and in a low, poisonous voice he added certain words which could not be made out, but which sounded curiously like “you great big fat weevily ham!”
“We can’t butt into this party,” protested Mr. Hartwig, suddenly feeling himself in a strange town, among strangers, as Father took his arm in front of the bungalow where the party was being fearlessly enacted.
“I never knew you to hesitate about butting in before,” said Father. “Some day I hope you butt into the Cyrus K. Ginn Home for Old Fossils, but now—”