‘Think? Think? I think you’re a conceited, inconsiderate young pup! I think you’re so self-centred and so dogGONE satisfied with yourself that it never occurs to you to remember how you might scare your mother and Sara and me, or how you hurt our feelings! I think it would be a bright idea to keep your scholarship marks from dropping about two hundred and seventeen per cent per each and every doggone annum, instead of going around feeling good because you’ve personally whooped up Soviet production so doggone much. And finally, I suppose you’ll expect me to pay for having your car fixed after you’ve deliberately been and gone and driven so carelessly that I know doggone well you weren’t keeping your eyes on the road and you ran off it! And of course, pass the buck to the county — and to me, to get it fixed!’

Howard’s blue eyes of a young Balder, Norse godling of the summer radiance, looked hurt.

‘But gee, Dad, it won’t cost so much, will it, if you have it done in your own repair shop, at the agency?’

Fred was glaring now, and Howard begged, ‘Gosh, honest, I wasn’t driving fast, Dad. I don’t THINK I was. I’m awfully sorry.’

‘Grrrrr!’ said Fredk Wm. For this was the third calamitous accident Howard had achieved in two years, and each time Fred had determined that it was his duty, finally, to say ‘Grrrrr!’

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Last updated Sunday, March 27, 2016 at 11:57

The Prodigal Parents, by Sinclair Lewis

Chapter 3

‘It might have been something I ate. That’s what it was. Prob’ly something I ate,’ said Fred. ‘Or maybe it was the snow glare. Made me dizzy. Or prob’ly that cold I had last week. But chances are,’ and he spoke with solidity and conviction, ‘it was something I ate.’

He crawled from under the mountain range of bedclothes, he rubbed his forehead, he scratched his ruddy moustache, which resembled half a doughnut, he flapped his tongue in an interested and speculative manner, he took a romantic position, eyes closed and forefinger to temple, as befitted one who was importantly ill, and he croaked, ‘I’ll bet it was the pie.’

‘If you know just what you’re talking about, dear, I’d be glad of a tip on the subject,’ sighed his wife, from the other twin bed in their pink and creamy chamber.

‘If I— if I KNOW— what I’m talking about!’ He was moved to light a cigarette, though normally he was not one to sit in his nightshirt, upon the edges of beds, after midnight, and toy with cigarettes. ‘Of course — of course. Man dying of pneumonia or malaria or something — just dying, that’s all — and all his family is interested in is: “Does he know what he’s talking about?”’

‘Dear, I just meant . . . What is it, really?’

‘I’ve got a fever.’

‘You? A fever?’

‘Yes, me. Not Sara, nor Howard, nor the cat, nor the maid’s second cousin’s brother-inlaw, but me! F-e-v-e-r!’