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The helpful one reluctantly pressed his thumb against the wry bottom of the can, aiming the twisted spout at odd parts of the mower. "I dunno," he commented. "I don't either," said Mrs Dinkman. "You Greener, Weener whatever your name is!" There was no possibility of evasion. "Yes, mam?" "You made this stuff grow; now you can cut it down." Uncouth guffaws from the watching idiots.
Here I am again, folks, in the street in front of the Dinkman residence a little out of breath, but none the worse off, ready to resume the blowbyblow story of the fight against the devilgrass. That was a little trouble back there, but it's all right now.
Later: We are out of sight of land; nothing but sea and sky, no green anywhere. On the eve of liberation all sorts of absurd and irrelevant thoughts jump about in my mind. The strange lady ... Joe's symphony, burned by his mother. Whatever happened to William Rufus Le ffaçasé after he eschewed his profession for superstition? And Mrs Dinkman?
And then to Mr Dinkman again, "'Worse' indeed! I'd like to know what could be worse?" "Well now " began Mr Dinkman; but I didnt hear the rest, for I was afraid by "rascals" Mrs Dinkman referred, quite unjustly, to me and I thought the time opportune to remind Gootes he hadnt yet completed his assignment.
"Hell, no. Sent for a gardener with a powermower. Big one. Cut anything. Ought to be here now." He was, too, honking the crowd from the driveway. Mrs Dinkman was with him, looking at once indignant, persecuted, uncomfortable and selfrighteous. It was evident they had failed to reach any agreement. The gardener slammed the door of the senescent truck with vehement lack of affection.
"It don't look any different," commented Mrs Dinkman dubiously. "Madam, Professor Francis' remarkable discovery works miracles, but not in the twinkling of an eye. In a week youll see for yourself, provided of course you wet it down properly." "In a week youll be far gone with my five dollars," diagnosed Mrs Dinkman.
The firemen went down the vertical ladder and forced an entrance into the choked windows. Mrs Dinkman came out first, helped by two of them. She kept pinching her glasses into place with one hand and pulling her skirt modestly close with the other, activities leaving her very little to grasp the ladder with.
"It's very distressing, but afterall it might be worse." "'Worse'! Adam Dinkman, has misfortune completely unhinged your mind? Money thrown in the gutter imposed on by oily rascals our house swallowed up by this ... this unnatural stuff and the final humiliation of being pulled out of our own home in front of a gawking crowd." She turned around and shouted, "Shoo, shoo why don't you go home?"
While this might be superficially true, it was an unfair and unkind thing to say, and it wounded me. I reached into my pocket and drew out an old card one printed before I'd had an irreconcilable difference with the firm employing me at the time. "I can always be reached at this address, Mrs Dinkman," I said, "should you have any cause for dissatisfaction which I'm sure is quite impossible.
Determination was implicit in the sharply unnatural lines of her corset and the firm set of her glasses as she charged into the gently swaying runners. The wheels turned rebelliously, the mower bit, its rusty blades grated against the knife, something clanked forcibly and the machine stopped. Mrs. Dinkman pushed, her back arched with effort the mower didnt budge. She pulled it back.
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