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Updated: May 9, 2025
"Why don't you scare a fellow to death, tiptoein' around? I never see such a cat-foot critter!" Captain Sol smiled. "Jumpin' it, ain't they?" he said, nodding toward the "Colonial." "Be there by the tenth, won't it?" "Tenth!" Mr. Phinney sniffed disgust. "It'll be there by the sixth, or I miss my guess." "Yup.
In the parlor was four or five groups of women in rockin' chairs, talkin' low and doin' fancy-work. Most of the men were tiptoein' up and down the veranda. They was a stoop shouldered, dyspeptic lookin' lot. Down in the basement in a place labeled "Recreation Room," a couple of checker games was in progress, and four gents was shovin' weights up and down the shuffleboard.
And, say, my guess is that you'll get about ten years on the rockpile." When the special directors' meetin' gets under way, though, and the big guns of the Corrugated law force got on the job, there was less noise and more electricity in the air. Honest, with all that tiptoein' and whisperin' and serious looks bein' passed around, I didn't even have the gall to guy one of the new typewriter girls.
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