(xx) June Christmas Card Pressure

Well, sir, it's late afternoon as our scene opens now, and him the living room of the small house halfway up in the next block, we find Mrs. Victor Cook and young Mr. Rush Cook. The latter is seated on the Davenport, industriously plying needle and thread to the ripped seam of an indoor baseball.

His mother, who is just this moment arrived home from a downtown shopping expedition, stands beside the library table gazing dangerously at an object on top, and she's saying, What on earth is this? Christmas card sample book.

Where did it come from? In yours? Nine. I thought one of your Christmas card salesmen left it. Miss Harris or Miss Wheeler? Miss Scott? Is God home? Uh-huh. Upstairs. What's doing? Changing clothes. He's taking supper with Mr. Bullard at the Butterhouse Hotel this evening.

Big! He must have brought this. Well, I certainly didn't. Okay, hi, Kijo. Be right down. Now, who in the name of Detroit Michigan is trying to sell us Christmas cards? I thought it was about time somebody started putting the pressure on again.

Then along, along, along, Christmas card people haven't bothered us for over a month. But when they start they really start. Mr. Erickson bought and hold me this noon and just now I found a postal card for Mad Bass in the mailbox.

Christmas greetings? Both of them. Never rains but it pours. Tomorrow, Robbie Miss Wheeler and Miss Scott, Miss Harris and the rest of the Christmas card tribal come around. I guess he must have, if you did.

Oh, person gets so tired of this business. Did Horseshoe Nail tell you my plans for this evening, Sadie? Yeah. I'm dining in the fashionable purple room of the Butterhouse Hotel as a guest to Mr. Bullock.