“Hang it! there’s nowhere to go,” he complained.
“What’s the matter with goin’ swimmin’?”
“Too cold yet.”
“Try a hike, then.”
“Too hot.”
Lon laid down the wrench with which he had been working; he made quite a ceremony of wiping his hands on a bunch of waste.
“Sam, you kinder remind me o’ the old lady with the plate o’ half-melted ice-cream—she said it was too soft to eat and too hard to drink. Yet it was pooty good ice-cream, at that; so’s this a pooty good spring day, if only you’ll take it right. And so long’s you ain’t feelin’ moved to sob out the sorrows o’ your young life on this sympathizin’ bosom, why don’t you walk ’em off? Get your crowd. Go somewhere. See something.”
“What is there to see?”
“That depends a lot on your eyes.”
“What do you mean?”