(xx) Cleaning the Attic

Well sir, it's a few minutes past nine o'clock in the morning as we enter the small house halfway up in the next block now. And we find Mrs. Vector Goke and her son Mr. Rush Goke, not in the kitchen, not on the porch, not in the living room or dining room, not upstairs, but high off to me attic.

The light is inadequate and we're barely able to discern our friends. Young Rush is saying discontentedly. Ash put it dark and stuffy and miserable and hot and dusty up here. Yes, hurry up and open the window.

I'll peel off my shirt. Open the window first. We have to have light in the air before we choke. That must feel like this makes an individual feel mean. Keep a person up here eight minutes in there, liable to get the impostor past their grandmother when they went upside the snoot.

I was reading in the newspaper where four guys were cooped up in a box car, and they got to stick and pin in each other's place. Slide that window off, wouldn't you? I'm trying to.

Word stiff as a horse. You want some help? Don't get it. Ish, what a nasty noise. Here's your the willies. For sure, feels good. Yes, move to one side so a little blows on me.

Wow. What's the matter? So that's what's become a rooster daves is taped up tennis ball. Is it on the porch row? Yeah. Wonder if I'm still little enough to climb out of that window. No, Sonny, we're up here for work.

We put this attic off and put this attic off. Now that we're here, let's make every minute count. I know it's not pleasant on a nice summer morning to have to breathe this awful stay over there.