EVERETT BJORKMAN
219
"The packaging of Turns is inferior," he told her amiably.
She, drunk and mussed, lips bruised, had just come
in
from her
Ladies' Aid.
"Men who pronounce
tradition
with an
s
are
queer,"
he said,
with a little wave of his hand.
"You were late getting home," she told him.
"Don't I know it."
"I'm giving up for Lent," she said decisively. "Last Lent it gave
me the backache."
Everett smiled mistily, poignantly. "We are getting old," he said.
"The price of Sal Hepatica these days is highjacking."
"They don't even give you towels. They don't even have wash-
rooms."
"You can get out through the lid."
"You're telling
me?"
"The radio has gone out and there isn't a repairman
in
the city
you
can trust."
"Well, we mustn't get emotional abOut it."
"No," he said, yawning. "We must face it with common sense."
And he did.
