The twilight pixies and pucks stole
forth unseen and plunged other poignant shafts of memory into the
heart of Robert. A rural madness entered his soul. The city was far
away.
Father sat without his pipe, writhing in his heavy boots, a sacrifice
to rigid courtesy. Robert shouted: "No, you don't!" He fetched the
pipe and lit it; he seized the old gentleman's boots and tore them
off. The last one slipped suddenly, and Mr. Robert Walmsley, of
Washington Square, tumbled off the porch backward with Buff on top of
him, howling fearfully. Tom laughed sarcastically.
Robert tore off his coat and vest and hurled them into a lilac bush.
"Come out here, you landlubber," he cried to Tom, "and I'll put grass
seed on your back. I think you called me a 'dude' a while ago. Come
along and cut your capers."
Tom understood the invitation and accepted it with delight. Three
times they wrestled on the grass, "side holds," even as the giants of
the mat. And twice was Tom forced to bite grass at the hands of the
distinguished lawyer. Dishevelled, panting, each still boasting of
his own prowess, they stumbled back to the porch. Millie cast a pert
reflection upon the qualities of a city brother. In an instant Robert
had secured a horrid katydid in his fingers and bore down upon her.
Screaming wildly, she fled up the lane, pursued by the avenging glass
of form. A quarter of a mile and they returned, she full of apology
to the victorious "dude.
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