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Updated: May 20, 2025
Billy repeated the lines half aloud. They renewed his confidence in Bridge, somehow. "Like them?" asked the latter. "Yes," said Billy; "s'more of Knibbs?" "No, Service. Come on, let's go and dine. How about the Midland?" and he grinned at his little joke as he led the way toward the street. It was late afternoon. The sun already had set; but it still was too light for lamps.
"Well, well, well," he at length began, soothingly, "go lie down; take something; take something; well, send over t' White Plains f'r s'more. Putcha t' sleep. What can I do?" Again the throttling hand. He ruefully surveyed his littered desk, then drew the long sigh of the baffled. "Take telegram m' wife. Sorry can't be home late, 'port'n board meet'n'. May be called out of town."
"Here's to you, Max!" He raised his glass and drank in through his rather heavy mustache, then flecked it this way and that with his napkin "Ahh-h-h-h, that's the stuff!" "S'more?" "Yah-h-h-h-h-h!" "Such a cotton mouth my bad boy brought home." "Aha! Fee, fie, fum! Aha!" "I broiled it under the single burner, Max, slow like you like. Here, you carve it, dearie. Just like always, eh?"
Raymond lay in bed very innocently asleep, and no one would have suspected that he had not slept in his sweater. "Well, I'll be dog-goned!" ejaculated Worry, laughing till he cried. Murray was hugely delighted. These men were as much boys as the boys they trained. The roar of laughter awakened Raymond, and he came out of sleep very languid and drowsy. "Aw, Ken, lemme sleep s'more."
"Go," she said, with a fat little gesture. "Mebbe you've got pressin' business. Mebbe you want to write billy-doos to Mrs. Hilliard. Mebbe them opery glasses needs dustin' off s'more." He fled lest she say worse.
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