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Thing, whole no. 1, Spring 1946
Page 18
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"Sure-the whisky." "That's right," said Mr. Pobbles. "Now, look here, Gus. I want you to take that whiskey back to Mr Galeano and get me a receipt for it, I'll leave it in the kitchen. Can you pick it up this morning?" "Sure thing, Mr. Pobbles," said Gus. "I'll be over for it in an hour or so." So Mr Pobbles had gone down to the office, leaving for Mrs Pobbles and her red nose behind him. Now he was walking home from the office, leaving Mrs Pobbles and her red nose behind him. Now he was walking home form the office, feeling all light and wholesome inside, with his conscience as warm and cosy as an electric toaster. Mr Pobbles took off the newspaper he had wrapped around the little lamp and looked at it. It was probably bronze, although it was so green with verdigris that you couldn't tell for sure. Maybe it was brass or copper. It looked like one of the lamps on Sunday School cards or the pictures which publishers sometimes put at the end of chapters when they want to be artistic or fill up some space. One end of the lamp had an enclosed spout, something like a cream pitcher. The other had a simple ring handle. The little lid, if it had had a little lid, was gone, but the whole thing had a pleasant, graceful look about it and Mr. Pobbles thought it would make an unusual ashtray for his den after he'd got it polished up a bit. Now, if Mona would only be reasonable about that whiskey business and stop nagging at him..... Mr Pobbles turned in at his front walk and groaned. The Wednesday bridge party! There would be Mrs Gray (fat), Mrs. Sampson (too vivacious), and Miss Libby Lavivandiere (who was always laughing ghoulishly at private little jokes into which Mere Man was never admitted). Every Wednesday they played bridge with Mona and every Wednesday Mr Pobbles ate something warmed over for dinner. Mr Pobbles was a patient man. He had been getting patienter and patienter for twenty-five years. He had, however, reached the point at which he could not stand (1) the sight of Mrs Gray quivering gently to all her extremities, as if a stone had been cast into her and the ripples were long subsiding; (2) the sound of Mrs Sampson being delightfully arch over his wholly imaginary conquests of the girls on the ration board staff, and (3) Miss Lavivandiere's chuckles over little jokes which he was sure she couldn't understand. He cut across lawn and went around the house to the kitchen. On the floor lay the case of Duke of Argyll sixteen-year-old Scotch. It had been broken open and two bottles were missing. Mr. Pobbles, a sick fear within him, stormed into the living room. Mrs Gray was there. Mrs Sampson was there. Miss Lavivandiere was there. And Mrs Pobbles was there, flourishing a bottle of Duke of Argyll and asking gaily if nobody wanted anuzzer li'l shot in ze arm. A second bottle, empty, lay on the hearthstone. "Darling." said Mr Pobbles, in a tone which didn't mean "darling" at all. "Ha, ha ha!" laughed Mrs Pobbles, with a fine metallic edge to he caroling, "Ha ha ha! Geshurself a glash, precioush, and have a li'l shot." Mr Pobbles tried to freeze her with a glance. "What is the meaning of this?" he demanded. "The funniest thing, dear," said Mrs Pobbles. "The very funniest thing! I found I di'n' have one shingle drop of liquor in the houshe, so I shimply had to use this!" "What about Thomasson?" "I shent him away." "But you know, you know very well----" Helplessness and indignation struggled for Mr Pobbles vocal cords. "You know I can't accept a present from Galeano. I explained all that and you knew how I felt about it." "Have a li'l drink!" "I will not have a little drink!" said Mr Pobbles. "Not with the wife who 18
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"Sure-the whisky." "That's right," said Mr. Pobbles. "Now, look here, Gus. I want you to take that whiskey back to Mr Galeano and get me a receipt for it, I'll leave it in the kitchen. Can you pick it up this morning?" "Sure thing, Mr. Pobbles," said Gus. "I'll be over for it in an hour or so." So Mr Pobbles had gone down to the office, leaving for Mrs Pobbles and her red nose behind him. Now he was walking home from the office, leaving Mrs Pobbles and her red nose behind him. Now he was walking home form the office, feeling all light and wholesome inside, with his conscience as warm and cosy as an electric toaster. Mr Pobbles took off the newspaper he had wrapped around the little lamp and looked at it. It was probably bronze, although it was so green with verdigris that you couldn't tell for sure. Maybe it was brass or copper. It looked like one of the lamps on Sunday School cards or the pictures which publishers sometimes put at the end of chapters when they want to be artistic or fill up some space. One end of the lamp had an enclosed spout, something like a cream pitcher. The other had a simple ring handle. The little lid, if it had had a little lid, was gone, but the whole thing had a pleasant, graceful look about it and Mr. Pobbles thought it would make an unusual ashtray for his den after he'd got it polished up a bit. Now, if Mona would only be reasonable about that whiskey business and stop nagging at him..... Mr Pobbles turned in at his front walk and groaned. The Wednesday bridge party! There would be Mrs Gray (fat), Mrs. Sampson (too vivacious), and Miss Libby Lavivandiere (who was always laughing ghoulishly at private little jokes into which Mere Man was never admitted). Every Wednesday they played bridge with Mona and every Wednesday Mr Pobbles ate something warmed over for dinner. Mr Pobbles was a patient man. He had been getting patienter and patienter for twenty-five years. He had, however, reached the point at which he could not stand (1) the sight of Mrs Gray quivering gently to all her extremities, as if a stone had been cast into her and the ripples were long subsiding; (2) the sound of Mrs Sampson being delightfully arch over his wholly imaginary conquests of the girls on the ration board staff, and (3) Miss Lavivandiere's chuckles over little jokes which he was sure she couldn't understand. He cut across lawn and went around the house to the kitchen. On the floor lay the case of Duke of Argyll sixteen-year-old Scotch. It had been broken open and two bottles were missing. Mr. Pobbles, a sick fear within him, stormed into the living room. Mrs Gray was there. Mrs Sampson was there. Miss Lavivandiere was there. And Mrs Pobbles was there, flourishing a bottle of Duke of Argyll and asking gaily if nobody wanted anuzzer li'l shot in ze arm. A second bottle, empty, lay on the hearthstone. "Darling." said Mr Pobbles, in a tone which didn't mean "darling" at all. "Ha, ha ha!" laughed Mrs Pobbles, with a fine metallic edge to he caroling, "Ha ha ha! Geshurself a glash, precioush, and have a li'l shot." Mr Pobbles tried to freeze her with a glance. "What is the meaning of this?" he demanded. "The funniest thing, dear," said Mrs Pobbles. "The very funniest thing! I found I di'n' have one shingle drop of liquor in the houshe, so I shimply had to use this!" "What about Thomasson?" "I shent him away." "But you know, you know very well----" Helplessness and indignation struggled for Mr Pobbles vocal cords. "You know I can't accept a present from Galeano. I explained all that and you knew how I felt about it." "Have a li'l drink!" "I will not have a little drink!" said Mr Pobbles. "Not with the wife who 18
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