(xx) Professor Russell

Well, sir, it's a few minutes past twelve o'clock noon as we enter the small house halfway up in the next block now. And here in the kitchen we find Mr. and Mrs. Victor Gulk on the point of sitting down to their midday meal.

Young Russell is not present, and his mother is saying... Might as well get started. Okay. Things will be cold. Sit down. You should die on your own self. Third time in a week that boy showed up late for meals.

Has he had good excuses on the previous occasions? Have punk excuses? He's a wicked scundrel. Sure is. Watch out for the beets. I got too much juice in the bowl. Beat juice, stain, something fierce.

Mm. Had a postal card from Dr. Nixon this morning. The San Antonio, Texas fellas? Uh-huh. How's he? Enjoy his radiant health. He has a blush on his cheek like a 16-year-old. He's a toast to Texas.

He was provokingly short-couches to display the prettiest wet and ankle in the country round. He's short, fat, and anti-disestablishmentarianistic. He's proud, fearless, colorblind, bashful, dishonest, with you disgusting smarts. Listen, I heard the front door open.

Oh, how little boy I bet. How little boy I bet. Hi. Where does I bet? Where is I bet? Hi. What time is it? Uh, twenty past twelve or so. Sam Christ, huh? Late for dinner in Walsen in the front door like the King of Ioria.

The lad needs a sound threshing. Need something. Dr. Nixson stayed in a postal card, letter Fallers. In fact, that was the entire burden of his postal card. He wrote, Dear Book, letter Fallers, Dr. Nixson.