Oh! but maybe he wasn't the City Boy with the Head in the Suburbs!
When I reached home that night I felt like a sock that needs
darning.
Clara J. had invited Uncle Peter to take dinner with us and he
began to give me the nervous look-over as soon as I answered roll
call.
Uncle Peter is a very stout, old gentleman. When he squeezes into
our little flat the walls act like they are bow-legged.
Uncle Peter always goes through the folding doors sideways and
every time he sits down the man in the flat below kicks because we
move the piano so often.
Tacks was also present.
Tacks is my youthful brother-in-law with a mind like a walking
delegate because he's always looking for trouble and when he finds
it he passes it up to somebody who doesn't need it.
"Evening, John!" gurgled Uncle Peter; "late, aren't you?"
"Cars blocked, delayed me," I sighed.
"New York will be a nice place when they get it finished, won't
it?" chirped Tacks.
Just then Aunt Martha squeezed in from a shopping excursion and I
went out in the hall while she counted up and dragged out the day's
spoils for Clara J. to look at.
Aunt Martha is Uncle Peter's wife only she weighs more and breathes
oftener.
When the two of them visit our bird cage at the same time the
janitor has to go out and stand in front of the building with a
view to catching it if it falls.
That night I waded into all the sporting papers and burned dream
pipes till the smoke made me dizzy.
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