osh, Mac, I would like to go to a real show, once.
And find out how radio works. And see 'em put in a big suspension
bridge!"

Milt left the Old Home rather aimlessly. He told himself that he
positively would not go back and help Ben Sittka get out the prof's car.
So he went back and helped Ben get out the prof's car, and drove the
same to the prof's. The prof, otherwise professor, otherwise mister,
James Martin Jones, B.A., and Mrs. James Martin Jones welcomed him
almost as noisily as had Mac. They begged him to come in. With Mr.
Jones he discussed--no, ye Claires of Brooklyn Heights, this garage man
and this threadbare young superintendent of a paintbare school, talking
in a town that was only a comma on the line, did not discuss
corn-growing, nor did they reckon to guess that by heck the constabule
was carryin' on with the Widdy Perkins. They spoke of fish-culture,
Elihu Root, the spiritualistic evidences of immortality, government
ownership, self-starters for flivvers, and the stories of Irvin Cobb.

Milt went home earlier than he wanted to. Because Mr. Jones was the only
man in town besides the priest who read books, because Mrs. Jones was
the only woman who laughed about any topics other than children and
family sickness, because he wanted to go to their house every night,
Milt treasured his welcome as a sacred thing, and kept himself from
calling on them more than once a week.

He stopped on his way to the garage to pet Emil Baumschweiger's large
gray cat, publicly known as Rags, but to Milt and to the lady herself
recognized as the unfortunate Countess Vere de Vere--perhaps the only
person of noble ancestry and mysterious past in Milt's acquaintance. The
Baumschweigers did not treat their animals well; Emil kicked the bay
mare, and threw pitchforks at Vere de Vere. Milt saluted her and
sympathized:

"You have a punk time, don't you, countess? Like to beat it to
Minneapolis with me?"

The countess said that she did indeed have an extraordinarily punk time,
and she sang to Milt the hymn of the little gods of the warm hearth.
Then Milt's evening dissipations were over. Schoenstrom has movies only
once a week. He sat in the office of his garage ruffling through a
weekly digest of events. Milt read much, though not too easily. He had
no desire to be a poet, an Indo-Iranian etymologist, a lecturer to
women's clubs, or the secretary of state. But he did rouse to the
marvels hinted in books and magazines; to large