Man’s hermitage is situated only in smoking, I should say.
I divested my uncle of his coat. I begged him to hold a bucket and a piece of cloth for a moment.
“Are you ready to wash the windows, Uncle?” I said.
“Traitor, Morning Glory!” He flashed his accusing glare.
Docile old man!
He cleaned four windows of the kitchen, which was also the dining-room and the parlour.
I paid him five cents for each.
I said: “It’s good fun to hire the chief secretary of the Nippon Mining Company to rub windows, isn’t it?”
And I laughed.
Then I forced him to buy a cigar.