Читать книгу Hashimura Togo, Domestic Scientist онлайн

12 страница из 36

 1 Japanese banjo of whang-string variety.

 5 complete cigars of Philippine factory.

 1 music entitled “Jolly Widow Wedding March.”

 1 umbrella of American nationality.

I tie umbrella to bed, so keep off drop-drip. I arrange myself under this water-shed, light cigar in teeth, put banjo in knuckles, retain music on knee. Then I commence beginning. Japanese banjos, Mr. Editor, refuse to wear American tunes unless forced to do so; but by practical continuation of pick-pick on strings I can become quite Mozart. I spent 2½ hours at this musical sympathy, filling small room with more sounds than it could contain and almost becoming tuneful, when—O startle!—knock-knock rapped at door.

“Come inwards!” I holla.

“Can’t do, and be pretty quick about it!” glub basso voice of Hon. Mr. Hoke, making rattles from locked knob. “Please unlock door so I can drag you out.”

I oblige politely by unlatching that locker. Hon. Hoke rosh inwards and stand sky-scraping over me like bulldogs scaring mice.

“Why you mean?” he thonder. “Why you so reptilian in depravity when kind Mrs. Wife are so angel-handed? Are she not entirely generous?”