The Little Nugget · I · XII · Chapter 2 12 2 (2/2)

“Don’t get all worked up about it, sonny,” he said. “It’s the fortune of war. Besides, what does it matter to you? Judging by that very snug apartment in London, you have quite enough money for a young man. Losing your job here won’t break you. And, if you’re worrying about Mrs. Ford and her feelings, don’t! I guess she’s probably forgotten all about the Nugget by this time. So cheer up. You’re all right!”

He stretched out a hand to pat me on the shoulder, then thought better of it and drew it back.

“Think of my happiness, if you want something to make you feel good. Believe me, young man, it’s some. I could sing! Gee, when I think that it’s all plain sailing now and no more troubles, I could dance! You don’t know what it means to me, putting through this deal. I wish you knew Mary! That’s her name. You must come and visit us, sonny, when we’re fixed up in the home. There’ll always be a knife and fork for you. We’ll make you one of the family! Lord! I can see the place as plain as I can see you. Nice frame house with a good porch.⁠ ⁠… Me in a rocker in my shirtsleeves, smoking a cigar and reading the baseball news; Mary in another rocker, mending my socks and nursing the cat! We’ll sure have a cat. Two cats. I like cats. And a goat in the front garden. Say, it’ll be great!”

And on the word, emotion overcoming prudence, he brought his fat hand down with a resounding smack on my bowed shoulders.

There is a limit. I bounded to my feet.

“Get out!” I yelped. “Get out of here!”

“Sure,” he replied agreeably. He rose without haste and regarded me compassionately. “Cheer up, son! Be a sport!”

There are moments when the best of men become melodramatic. I offer this as excuse for my next observation.

Clenching my fists and glaring at him, I cried, “I’ll foil you yet, you hound!”

Some people have no soul for the dramatic. He smiled tolerantly.

“Sure,” he said. “Anything you like, Desperate Desmond. Enjoy yourself!”

And he left me.