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In Schoenstrom he had known that there must somewhere be beautiful "parlors," but he had trusted in his experience of kitchens. But the Gilson kitchen had the efficiency of a laboratory and the superciliousness of a hair-dresser's booth.
The traveling men, he knew, were pioneers in spats. Hence it was to the traveling men, not to supercilious tourists in limousines, that Milt turned for suggestions as to how to perform the miracle of changing from an ambitious boy into what Claire would recognize as a charming man. He had not met enough traveling men at Schoenstrom.
There has never been a Freshman, not the most goggle-eyed and earnest of them, who has seen less of classmates, thought less about "outside activities," more grimly centered the universe about his work. Milt had sold his garage, by mail, to Ben Sittka and Heinie Rauskukle. He had enough money to get through two years, with economy. His life was as simple and dull as it had been in Schoenstrom.
And I didn't know a roller-bearing from three-point suspension! But Well, anyway, he worked along, and built a regular garage, and paid off practically all the mortgage on it " "I remember stopping at a garage in Schoenstrom, I'm almost sure it was, for something. I seem to remember it was a good place. Do you own it? Really?" "Ye-es, what there is of it." "But there's a great deal of it.
"Honestly, don't know what you're driving at. You're kind of played out, after this long trip. You'll feel better when you get home and have a good bath, and put on the blue negligee. That's some vampire costume, you witch!" He squeezed her arm, looked at her knowingly. They moved on from the desert stillness of the Schoenstrom station. The train creaked, banged, swayed.
For the first time she tolerated him rather than encouraged him. She was staring out at Schoenstrom, a hamlet of perhaps a hundred and fifty inhabitants, at which the train was stopping. A bearded German and his pucker-mouthed wife tugged their enormous imitation-leather satchel from under a seat and waddled out. The station agent hoisted a dead calf aboard the baggage-car.
"Then I'll tag after you tomorrow, and speak my piece." "So jolly you're going through the Park." "Yes, thought might as well. What the guide books call 'Wonders of Nature. Only wonder of nature I ever saw in Schoenstrom was my friend Mac trying to think he was soused after a case of near-beer. Well See you tomorrow." Not once had he smiled. His tone had been impersonal.
The task was to give away the Best Suit, that stolid, very black covering which at Schoenstrom had seemed suitable either to a dance or to the Y. P. S. C. E. The recipient was Mr. Pinky Parrott, who gave in return a history of charity and high souls. Milt did not listen. He was wondering, now that they had started, where they had started for. Certainly not for Seattle!
Lolling on the bed, grinning, waving a cigarette, was Bill McGolwey, proprietor of the Old Home Lunch, of Schoenstrom, Minnesota. "Wwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwhy where the heck did you come from?" stammered the deposed aristocrat to his bosom friend Bill. "You old lemon-pie-faced, lollygagging, flap-footed, crab-nosed son of misery, gee, but it's good to see you, Milt!"
"Well, tell you, old hoss. Schoenstrom got so darn lonely after you left, and when Ben and Heinie got your address and bought the garage, think's I, lez go off on a little bum."
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