.. a peculiar smell waxed
in the kitchen, however ... which we could never trace to its source ...
"a dead rat somewhere, maybe," suggested my father.
When we had used a third of the bacon grease, the dead rat's foot stood
up ... out of that can.
We discharged the contents of our stomachs in the sink.
This was the ridiculous incident that possessed my imagination while I
struggled with my father.
* * * * *
I had my father over on the bed. He fought to a sitting posture again
... got his finger in my eye and made me see a whorl of dancing sparks.
With irritation and a curse ... then both laughing hysterically and
sobbing ... I bore him back to his pillow....
The strength had gone entirely out of him ... now it came into his mind
that I was there trying to rob or kill him.
"Spare me, spare me!" he pleaded, "you can have everything in the house
... only don't kill me! My God!"
"Good Christ!" I groaned, as he beat upward, fighting again.
I let him rise, almost palsied with horror.
He perched on the edge of the bed, exhausted,--began groping with one
hand, in the air, idly.
"What is it? What do you want?"
"Give me my pants! I don't trust you. I want to go to the corner and get
a drink ... give me my pants!"
"Pop, look at me ... stop this nonsense ... you're safe ... I'm your
son, Johnnie!"
"That's all very well," he assented with an air of reserved cunning.
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