I thought first I could liven them up
some, _you_ know. Looked like it would help a lot for them to get
out in a hack and get a few shots of hooch under their belts, stop at
a few roadhouses, take in a good variety show; get 'em to feeling
good, understand? No use. Wouldn't start. Darn it! they held off from
me. Don't know why. I sure wore clothes for them. Yes, sir. I'd get
dressed up like a broken arm every afternoon; and, say, I got one
sheath skirt, black and white striped, that just has to be looked at.
Never phased them, though.
"I got to thinking mebbe it was because I made my own smokes instead
of using those vegetable cigarettes of Jackson's, or maybe because I'd
get parched and demand a slug of booze before supper. Like a Sunday
afternoon all the time, when you eat a big dinner and everybody's
sleepy and mad because they can't take a nap, and have to set around
and play a few church tunes on the organ or look through the album
again."
"Ain't that right? Don't it fade you?" murmured Cousin Egbert with
deep feeling.
"And little Lysander, my only grandson, poor kid, getting the fidgets
because they try to make him talk different, and raise hell every time
he knocks over a vase or busts a window. Say, would you believe it?
they wanted to keep him there--yes, sir--make him refined.
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