Selected Short Stories
In front of the Y Wurry Gas & Fixit Station, at Mechanicville, New
York, the proprietor, Mr. Rabbit Tait, sat elegantly upon a kitchen
chair. He was a figure, that Rabbit Tait--christened Thomas. His
trousers might be spotty, and their hem resembled the jagged edges
of magnified razor blades shown in the advertisements, but his
shirt was purple, with narrow red stripes, his sleeve garters were
of silvered metal, and on one sausage-like forefinger was a ring
with a ruby which would have been worth two hundred thousand
dollars had it not been made of glass.
Mr. Tait was not tall, but he was comfortably round; his face was
flushed; his red mustache was so beautifully curled that he
resembled a detective; and his sandy hair was roached down over his
forehead in one of the most elegant locks ever seen on the wrong
side of a mahogany bar.
Out from the neat white cottage behind the filling station, a
residence with all modern conveniences except bathrooms, gas and
electricity, charged his spouse, Mrs. Bessie Tait, herding their
son Terry.
Now Bessie was not beautiful. She had a hard-boiled-egg forehead
and a flatiron jaw, which harmonized with her milk-can voice to
compose a domestic symphony. Nor was Rabbit Tait, for all his
dashing air, an Apollo. But Terry, aged six, was a freak of
beauty.
He was too good to be true. He had, surely, come off a magazine
cover. He had golden hair, like blown thistledown in a sunset, his
skin was white silk, his big eyes violet, his nose straight, and
his mouth had twisting little smiles which caused the most loyal
drunkards to go home and reform.
How he had ever happened to Rabbit and Bessie Tait, how the angels
(or the stork, or Doc McQueech) had ever happened to leave Terry in
the cottage behind the Y Wurry Filling Station instead of in the
baronial clapboard castle of the Mechanicville banker, is a mystery
which is left to the eugenists.
Bessie was speaking in a manner not befitting the mother of a
Christmas-card cherub:
"For the love of Mike, Rabbit, are you going to sit there on your
chair all afternoon? Why don't you get busy?"
"Yeah?" contributed the cherub's father. "Sure! Whajjuh wamme do?
Go out and grab some bozo's bus by the radiator cap and make him
come in and buy some gas?"
"Well, you kin fix the screen door, can't you?"
"The screen door?"
"Yes, the screen door, you poor glue!"
"The screen door? Is it busted?"
"Oh, heck, no; it ain't busted! I just want you to come and
scratch its back where the mosquitoes been biting it, you poor sap!
And then you can take care of this brat. Under my feet the whole
dog-gone day!"
She slapped Terry, generously and skilfully, and as Terry howled,
Rabbit rose uneasily, pale behind the bronze splendor of his curled
mustache. Bessie was obviously in one of her more powerful moods,
and it is to be feared that we should have had the distressing
spectacle of Mr. Tait going to work, driven by his good lady's iron
jaw and granite will, had not, that second, a limousine stopped at
the filling station.
In the limousine was a lady so rich, so rich and old, that she had
to be virtuous. She had white hair and a complexion like an old
china cup. Glancing out while Rabbit Tait cheerily turned the
handle of the gas pump, she saw Terry.
"Oh!" she squealed. "What an angelic child! Is it yours?"
"Yes, ma'am," chuckled Rabbit, while Bessie ranged forward, beaming
on the treasure she had so recently slapped.
"He ought to be a choir boy," said the refined old lady. "He would
be simply darling, at St. Juke's, in Albany. You must take him
there, and introduce him to Doctor Wimple, the curate--he's so fond
of the little ones! I'm sure your dear little boy could be sent to
some church school free, and THINK--these dreadful modern days--
otherwise, with his beauty, he might get drawn into the movies as a
child star, or some frightful thing like that, and be ruined! Good
morning!"
"Jiminy, that's a swell old dame!" observed the dear little boy as
the limousine swam away.
"1108349646"
York, the proprietor, Mr. Rabbit Tait, sat elegantly upon a kitchen
chair. He was a figure, that Rabbit Tait--christened Thomas. His
trousers might be spotty, and their hem resembled the jagged edges
of magnified razor blades shown in the advertisements, but his
shirt was purple, with narrow red stripes, his sleeve garters were
of silvered metal, and on one sausage-like forefinger was a ring
with a ruby which would have been worth two hundred thousand
dollars had it not been made of glass.
Mr. Tait was not tall, but he was comfortably round; his face was
flushed; his red mustache was so beautifully curled that he
resembled a detective; and his sandy hair was roached down over his
forehead in one of the most elegant locks ever seen on the wrong
side of a mahogany bar.
Out from the neat white cottage behind the filling station, a
residence with all modern conveniences except bathrooms, gas and
electricity, charged his spouse, Mrs. Bessie Tait, herding their
son Terry.
Now Bessie was not beautiful. She had a hard-boiled-egg forehead
and a flatiron jaw, which harmonized with her milk-can voice to
compose a domestic symphony. Nor was Rabbit Tait, for all his
dashing air, an Apollo. But Terry, aged six, was a freak of
beauty.
He was too good to be true. He had, surely, come off a magazine
cover. He had golden hair, like blown thistledown in a sunset, his
skin was white silk, his big eyes violet, his nose straight, and
his mouth had twisting little smiles which caused the most loyal
drunkards to go home and reform.
How he had ever happened to Rabbit and Bessie Tait, how the angels
(or the stork, or Doc McQueech) had ever happened to leave Terry in
the cottage behind the Y Wurry Filling Station instead of in the
baronial clapboard castle of the Mechanicville banker, is a mystery
which is left to the eugenists.
Bessie was speaking in a manner not befitting the mother of a
Christmas-card cherub:
"For the love of Mike, Rabbit, are you going to sit there on your
chair all afternoon? Why don't you get busy?"
"Yeah?" contributed the cherub's father. "Sure! Whajjuh wamme do?
Go out and grab some bozo's bus by the radiator cap and make him
come in and buy some gas?"
"Well, you kin fix the screen door, can't you?"
"The screen door?"
"Yes, the screen door, you poor glue!"
"The screen door? Is it busted?"
"Oh, heck, no; it ain't busted! I just want you to come and
scratch its back where the mosquitoes been biting it, you poor sap!
And then you can take care of this brat. Under my feet the whole
dog-gone day!"
She slapped Terry, generously and skilfully, and as Terry howled,
Rabbit rose uneasily, pale behind the bronze splendor of his curled
mustache. Bessie was obviously in one of her more powerful moods,
and it is to be feared that we should have had the distressing
spectacle of Mr. Tait going to work, driven by his good lady's iron
jaw and granite will, had not, that second, a limousine stopped at
the filling station.
In the limousine was a lady so rich, so rich and old, that she had
to be virtuous. She had white hair and a complexion like an old
china cup. Glancing out while Rabbit Tait cheerily turned the
handle of the gas pump, she saw Terry.
"Oh!" she squealed. "What an angelic child! Is it yours?"
"Yes, ma'am," chuckled Rabbit, while Bessie ranged forward, beaming
on the treasure she had so recently slapped.
"He ought to be a choir boy," said the refined old lady. "He would
be simply darling, at St. Juke's, in Albany. You must take him
there, and introduce him to Doctor Wimple, the curate--he's so fond
of the little ones! I'm sure your dear little boy could be sent to
some church school free, and THINK--these dreadful modern days--
otherwise, with his beauty, he might get drawn into the movies as a
child star, or some frightful thing like that, and be ruined! Good
morning!"
"Jiminy, that's a swell old dame!" observed the dear little boy as
the limousine swam away.
Selected Short Stories
In front of the Y Wurry Gas & Fixit Station, at Mechanicville, New
York, the proprietor, Mr. Rabbit Tait, sat elegantly upon a kitchen
chair. He was a figure, that Rabbit Tait--christened Thomas. His
trousers might be spotty, and their hem resembled the jagged edges
of magnified razor blades shown in the advertisements, but his
shirt was purple, with narrow red stripes, his sleeve garters were
of silvered metal, and on one sausage-like forefinger was a ring
with a ruby which would have been worth two hundred thousand
dollars had it not been made of glass.
Mr. Tait was not tall, but he was comfortably round; his face was
flushed; his red mustache was so beautifully curled that he
resembled a detective; and his sandy hair was roached down over his
forehead in one of the most elegant locks ever seen on the wrong
side of a mahogany bar.
Out from the neat white cottage behind the filling station, a
residence with all modern conveniences except bathrooms, gas and
electricity, charged his spouse, Mrs. Bessie Tait, herding their
son Terry.
Now Bessie was not beautiful. She had a hard-boiled-egg forehead
and a flatiron jaw, which harmonized with her milk-can voice to
compose a domestic symphony. Nor was Rabbit Tait, for all his
dashing air, an Apollo. But Terry, aged six, was a freak of
beauty.
He was too good to be true. He had, surely, come off a magazine
cover. He had golden hair, like blown thistledown in a sunset, his
skin was white silk, his big eyes violet, his nose straight, and
his mouth had twisting little smiles which caused the most loyal
drunkards to go home and reform.
How he had ever happened to Rabbit and Bessie Tait, how the angels
(or the stork, or Doc McQueech) had ever happened to leave Terry in
the cottage behind the Y Wurry Filling Station instead of in the
baronial clapboard castle of the Mechanicville banker, is a mystery
which is left to the eugenists.
Bessie was speaking in a manner not befitting the mother of a
Christmas-card cherub:
"For the love of Mike, Rabbit, are you going to sit there on your
chair all afternoon? Why don't you get busy?"
"Yeah?" contributed the cherub's father. "Sure! Whajjuh wamme do?
Go out and grab some bozo's bus by the radiator cap and make him
come in and buy some gas?"
"Well, you kin fix the screen door, can't you?"
"The screen door?"
"Yes, the screen door, you poor glue!"
"The screen door? Is it busted?"
"Oh, heck, no; it ain't busted! I just want you to come and
scratch its back where the mosquitoes been biting it, you poor sap!
And then you can take care of this brat. Under my feet the whole
dog-gone day!"
She slapped Terry, generously and skilfully, and as Terry howled,
Rabbit rose uneasily, pale behind the bronze splendor of his curled
mustache. Bessie was obviously in one of her more powerful moods,
and it is to be feared that we should have had the distressing
spectacle of Mr. Tait going to work, driven by his good lady's iron
jaw and granite will, had not, that second, a limousine stopped at
the filling station.
In the limousine was a lady so rich, so rich and old, that she had
to be virtuous. She had white hair and a complexion like an old
china cup. Glancing out while Rabbit Tait cheerily turned the
handle of the gas pump, she saw Terry.
"Oh!" she squealed. "What an angelic child! Is it yours?"
"Yes, ma'am," chuckled Rabbit, while Bessie ranged forward, beaming
on the treasure she had so recently slapped.
"He ought to be a choir boy," said the refined old lady. "He would
be simply darling, at St. Juke's, in Albany. You must take him
there, and introduce him to Doctor Wimple, the curate--he's so fond
of the little ones! I'm sure your dear little boy could be sent to
some church school free, and THINK--these dreadful modern days--
otherwise, with his beauty, he might get drawn into the movies as a
child star, or some frightful thing like that, and be ruined! Good
morning!"
"Jiminy, that's a swell old dame!" observed the dear little boy as
the limousine swam away.
York, the proprietor, Mr. Rabbit Tait, sat elegantly upon a kitchen
chair. He was a figure, that Rabbit Tait--christened Thomas. His
trousers might be spotty, and their hem resembled the jagged edges
of magnified razor blades shown in the advertisements, but his
shirt was purple, with narrow red stripes, his sleeve garters were
of silvered metal, and on one sausage-like forefinger was a ring
with a ruby which would have been worth two hundred thousand
dollars had it not been made of glass.
Mr. Tait was not tall, but he was comfortably round; his face was
flushed; his red mustache was so beautifully curled that he
resembled a detective; and his sandy hair was roached down over his
forehead in one of the most elegant locks ever seen on the wrong
side of a mahogany bar.
Out from the neat white cottage behind the filling station, a
residence with all modern conveniences except bathrooms, gas and
electricity, charged his spouse, Mrs. Bessie Tait, herding their
son Terry.
Now Bessie was not beautiful. She had a hard-boiled-egg forehead
and a flatiron jaw, which harmonized with her milk-can voice to
compose a domestic symphony. Nor was Rabbit Tait, for all his
dashing air, an Apollo. But Terry, aged six, was a freak of
beauty.
He was too good to be true. He had, surely, come off a magazine
cover. He had golden hair, like blown thistledown in a sunset, his
skin was white silk, his big eyes violet, his nose straight, and
his mouth had twisting little smiles which caused the most loyal
drunkards to go home and reform.
How he had ever happened to Rabbit and Bessie Tait, how the angels
(or the stork, or Doc McQueech) had ever happened to leave Terry in
the cottage behind the Y Wurry Filling Station instead of in the
baronial clapboard castle of the Mechanicville banker, is a mystery
which is left to the eugenists.
Bessie was speaking in a manner not befitting the mother of a
Christmas-card cherub:
"For the love of Mike, Rabbit, are you going to sit there on your
chair all afternoon? Why don't you get busy?"
"Yeah?" contributed the cherub's father. "Sure! Whajjuh wamme do?
Go out and grab some bozo's bus by the radiator cap and make him
come in and buy some gas?"
"Well, you kin fix the screen door, can't you?"
"The screen door?"
"Yes, the screen door, you poor glue!"
"The screen door? Is it busted?"
"Oh, heck, no; it ain't busted! I just want you to come and
scratch its back where the mosquitoes been biting it, you poor sap!
And then you can take care of this brat. Under my feet the whole
dog-gone day!"
She slapped Terry, generously and skilfully, and as Terry howled,
Rabbit rose uneasily, pale behind the bronze splendor of his curled
mustache. Bessie was obviously in one of her more powerful moods,
and it is to be feared that we should have had the distressing
spectacle of Mr. Tait going to work, driven by his good lady's iron
jaw and granite will, had not, that second, a limousine stopped at
the filling station.
In the limousine was a lady so rich, so rich and old, that she had
to be virtuous. She had white hair and a complexion like an old
china cup. Glancing out while Rabbit Tait cheerily turned the
handle of the gas pump, she saw Terry.
"Oh!" she squealed. "What an angelic child! Is it yours?"
"Yes, ma'am," chuckled Rabbit, while Bessie ranged forward, beaming
on the treasure she had so recently slapped.
"He ought to be a choir boy," said the refined old lady. "He would
be simply darling, at St. Juke's, in Albany. You must take him
there, and introduce him to Doctor Wimple, the curate--he's so fond
of the little ones! I'm sure your dear little boy could be sent to
some church school free, and THINK--these dreadful modern days--
otherwise, with his beauty, he might get drawn into the movies as a
child star, or some frightful thing like that, and be ruined! Good
morning!"
"Jiminy, that's a swell old dame!" observed the dear little boy as
the limousine swam away.
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Product Details
| BN ID: | 2940013682610 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | WDS Publishing |
| Publication date: | 01/21/2012 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| File size: | 325 KB |
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