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Updated: May 22, 2025
"Confound it, man!" he says, "they're sick of hot and cold water, elevators, bell wires with a nigger on the end, and all that. There's a raft of old codgers that call themselves 'self-made men' meanin' that the Creator won't own 'em, and they take the responsibility themselves that are always wishing they could go somewheres like the shacks where they lived when they were kids.
"Nearly all the wealthy codgers in such towns are deacons, you see, and though they may not speak to you for months on the street, it's their business to waylay you after the service is over and shake hands with you and tell you they hope you enjoyed the sermon and ask you to come again. And you can bank on it, they'll all take notice from the first."
He suffers a hardening of the intellectual arteries. There are quaint old codgers one knows here and there who declare that in fiction there has "been nothing since Dickens." They are delightful, of course; but one would rather see than be one. Nothing now can get in.
He'll never do't again; and sprigs like him think they've a right to make fun of old codgers like me," was grandpa's meek expostulation. "Do, pray, Guy, how long must we wait here?"
"I knew, I just felt it in my bones, that that gold dust twin with his swell bathing suit and his waterproof mackinaw was going to lose his roll in the water. He carried it loose in his mackinaw pocket a camper, mind you. He had a wad big enough to pay off the national debt, and I knew it would tumble out and it did. Skinny's one of those poor little codgers that's always unlucky.
Well, dad and this man from Dakota kicked high until dad caught by the ankle on a gas bracket, and the strange man got me up out of bed to help unloosen dad and get him down before he was black in the face. Finally we got dad down and then the two old codgers began to discuss a proposition to go to Monte Carlo to break the bank.
He knew himself to be of a breeding altogether more esthetic and sensitive than Thompson's. He was a college graduate, he played golf, he often smoked cigarettes instead of cigars, and when he went to Chicago he took a room with a private bath. "The whole thing is," he explained to Paul Riesling, "these old codgers lack the subtlety that you got to have to-day."
I wish a few of us old codgers might get together some time and with many a hummed and prefatory, "Do, mi, Sol, do; Sol, mi... mi-i-i-i," finally manage to quaver out the sweet old tunes we learned when we were little tads, each with a penny in his fat, warm hand: "Shall we Gather at the River?" and "Work, for the Night is Coming"; and what was the name of that one about: "The waves shall come and the rolling thunder shock Shall beat upon the house that is founded on a rock, And it never shall fall, never, never, never."
"Fox-terriers of the sea; friends with every ship that comes along. Funny codgers, aren't they?" he said. "When you are stronger we'll go up to the cutwater and watch them from there." "I have . . . from many ships." A shadow, which was not cast by the jib, fell upon them both.
Why, it will take us a month of Sundays before the lower masts are rigged. What the devil did they send those old codgers with their wooden legs here for? I will go immediately to the Admiral, and point out the state we are in.” In the afternoon another lieutenant joined the ship, junior to me.
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