It seemed to Kenneth he had just fallen into a troubled slumber when he was aroused by the tinkling of the telephone bell at the side of his bed. It was Hiram Tucker.
“Doc, I reck’n you won’t have to go t’ Atlanty today, after all. My wife, she tol’ me to tell you she’s changed her min’ ‘bout that op’ration. … What’s dat? … Naw, suh, she’s kinder skeered she won’ wake up from dat chlo’form. … Yas, suh, yas, suh, I knows ‘rangements been made but, Doc, you ain’t married, so you don’t know nuthin’ ‘tall ’bout wimmenfolks. … Some day you’ll learn dat when dey says dey ain’t gwine do somethin’ dey’s done sot dere minds on not doing, dey ain’t gwine t’ do it. … Hello. … Hello. … Hello!”
But Kenneth had hung up. He telephoned the local telegraph office to send a wire to the hospital in Atlanta to cancel the arrangements he had made for the operation on the following day, and tumbled back in bed to sleep like a log until late in the morning. He was awakened by Bob, who informed him that the reception room was half filled with patients who were no longer patient at being kept waiting so long. He arose reluctantly, his eyes still filled with sleep. Bob leaned against the wall, hands in pockets, and looked at his brother with a smile of amusement. Kenneth, not thoroughly awakened as yet, paid no attention to him for a time, but at last noticed Bob’s smile.
“Why this early morning humour? I’ve seen many ’possums with a more engaging smile then the one that distorts your face now!” he half-grumblingly, half-cheerfully observed.
Bob but grinned the more at Kenneth’s remark.
“I was just thinking that if Jane could only get one glimpse of you in the morning before breakfast, your chances would be mighty slim with her.”
“Jane? What have my looks to do with her?” Kenneth retorted with some heat, in a vain attempt to spar for time.
Bob addressed the world in general, calling on it for some aid in understanding this brother of his.
“Jane?” he mimicked Kenneth’s tone of surprise. “You talk like a ten-year-old boy with his first love affair. Isn’t he the innocent one, though? Why, you poor maligned creature, everybody in Central City who isn’t blind knows that you are head over heels in love with Jane Phillips. And,” he added as an afterthought, “those who are blind have been told it. But to return to my original observation, if there was some means by which, with all propriety, all the girls in the world who are in love could see, and be seen by, the poor boobs with whom they are so infatuated, marriage-licence bureaus would be closed that day, never to open again.” This last with an omniscient air of worldly wisdom that caused Kenneth to burst into a roar of laughter, while Bob watched him, somewhat discomfited.
“What’re you laughing at?” he demanded in an aggrieved tone. Kenneth laughed all the harder. “Why, you poor little innocent, you haven’t gotten rid of your pin feathers, and yet you are talking as though you were a philosopher like Schopenhauer. You’d better wait until you finish school and see something of the world. Then you can talk a little—though only a little as you did just now. By the way, it’s about time for you to be planning for school this fall. Still thinking about going back to Atlanta?”