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Updated: June 28, 2025
And what if he didn't get back right away, for some reason? Maybe Arlen, downstairs, would look after him. A few minutes after he heard Arlen return from work, he knocked on his door. "Hello, Oliver." "Nice shirt, Arlen. Aloha!" "Aloha, Oliver." White tropical blossoms and blue sky hung from Arlen's thin shoulders. He was wearing faded jeans and cowboy boots.
Arlen was collecting his mail when Oliver arrived home. "Hey, Arlen, how are you?" "Just fine, Oliver." "Developments, Arlen!" "I noticed with a Volvo." "Jennifer. We must get together soon. She's great. She's going to have a baby. We're going to have a baby." "Congratulations! I'm happy for you, Oliver. Developments downstairs, as well." "I wondered," Oliver said. "Porter," Arlen said simply.
Pee-wee was there and Artie Val Arlen, of the Ravens, and the little sandy-haired fellow with the cough, running to keep up and yelling proudly for his chief and idol. "Hurrah for the silver cross!" they called. "Three cheers for the honor scout!" "Three cheers and three extra weeks!"
You look great." She held him tightly and then stepped back, knuckling the top of his head. "How's married life?" "Fine," he said. She looked at him closely. "I'm thinking of trying it myself," she said. "I don't know." "Uh, Jacky, this is my buddy, Arlen." "How do you do," Arlen said, extending his hand. "A pleasure to meet you," Jacky said. "What's that in your glass?"
"Birds can be your friends," Arlen said. "People don't realize." He looked out the window. "I had a parakeet once. His name was Tootsie." "Tootsie," Oliver repeated, sipping whiskey. "An ordinary parakeet, green and yellow but Tootsie could sing! A wonderful singer." Arlen looked back at Oliver. "Parakeets are tough, you know. They are little parrots, actually, strong birds." "Really? Parrots?
He had already written his father and explained the situation, so he needed only to send a birth announcement. "Emma Dior Prescott April 26th, 1994 7 lbs 6 oz. Looks a little like us," he added beneath. He walked to the corner and dropped the card in the mailbox. On his way back, he met Arlen and told him the news. "A major event. I'm happy for you," Arlen said.
Roy was starting but Artie Van Arlen pulled him back. "It's all you can do to limp," he said. "I'll go." "If it's a hospital emergency call, the police will come," Westy warned. "Never mind," said Doc, "get to a 'phone, that's all I care about. And hustle." Before he had finished speaking Artie was gone.
"He means his reminiscences," said Arrie Van Arlen. "I think," said Mr. Ellsworth, "that Scout Harris will be quite busy enough forming the new patrol, and when it is formed I hope he will present it to the First Bridgeboro Troop, B. S. A." "That's us," said Westy Martin. "I don't see how Pee-wee can get out of the troop," Mr.
"I'll ask," Arlen said. "O.K., thanks." Oliver sipped whiskey. "My stepfather was a good guy. He drowned nearly twenty years ago." "I'm sorry. Fathers can be bad, too, you know." "I guess I'll just have to find out. Bound to learn something, either way." "A drop more?" "Sure." "Fathers, then," Arlen toasted. "I remember when I told mine that I was gay. I was pretty nervous." "What happened?"
"Same here," said Artie Van Arlen; "my father has to stay late so as to beat your father." "If he stays at the links long enough to do that you'll never see him again," said Roy. "What time is this racket supposed to be, anyway?" "Eight sharp," said Grove Bronson. "Are we going to go all separated together or all separated at once?" Roy asked. "Positively," said Warde Hollister.
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