(xx) Mrs. Scott Getting Too Chummy

Well, sir, it's about ten-thirty or clock as we enter the small house, halfway up in the next block now, and here in the living room we find our friend spending a quiet evening at home.

Vic is seated in his easy chair reading the kitchen where the dealer is quarterly, say he occupies a corner of the Davenport with his sewing, and young rush at the library table laboriously travels in the labyrinth and trails of algebraic formulai, and his mother glancing at him remarks.

All through? Yeah, at least. You studied real well. Almost two solid hours. That long? Well, you got home from Bluetooth Johnson's house at eight thirty. Nearly ten thirty now. Time goes by quick when you're busy.

Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Oh, we're awake. You're awake at last too, huh, mister? The kitchen ready is quite late from coming to coming. You realize the three of us been sitting here all evening and nobody's opened their mouth?

It may be fair. Been quiet as a horse. Telephone hasn't even rung. Well, they've been studying and you've been reading. I've been so on. It's a rare thing for this family to sit in the same room two whole hours and not a soul say anything.

They say something now. Yeah, let's have a chat. Anybody got anything to chat about? People might be interested in the story news that Papa is going to bed here at me. Yeah, that's interesting. I got something to chat about.

From Dana Miss Harris' room in Mr. Sludge after school this afternoon, he was crying. Nothing unusual about that. He's always crying. The reason why he was crying today is pretty unusual. His shoe is pinching his feet again?