Still, if he could get out peacefully ...
He stepped lightly to the hall and was on the point of seizing his hat
when the flapper called down to him.
"You just perfectly don't leave this house again!"
"Not going to," he answered guiltily. "Looking to see what size hat I
wear. Fumed eggs," he concluded triumphantly.
He was not again left alone. The waster came back and supposed he would
do some golfing "over across."
Bean loathed golf and gathered the strange power to say so.
"Sooner be a mail-carrier than a golf-player," he answered stoutly.
"Looks more fun, anyway."
"_My_ word!" exclaimed the waster, "aren't you even keen on watching
it?"
"Sooner watch a lot of Italians tearing up a street-car track," Bean
persisted.
"Oh, come!" protested the waster.
"Like to have another fumed egg," said Bean.
"You've had one too many," declared the waster, knowing that no sober
man could speak thus of the sport of kings.
Grandma, the Demon, entered and portentously shook hands with him. She
seemed to have discovered that marriage was very serious.
"Fumed eggs," said Bean, regarding her shrewdly.
"What?" demanded Grandma.
"Fumed eggs, hundred p'cent efficient," he declared stoutly.
The Demon eyed him more closely.
"My grandmother smoked, too," said Bean, "but I never went in for it
much."
"U-u-u-mmm!" said the Demon. It was to be seen that she felt puzzled.
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