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voice, fumbling over pronunciation, the baseball stories of Ring Lardner. “You know me, Al.” Just outside the windows the flat veranda roof was still warm from its daytime exhalations of tar— calked tin. Rich cob-webbed grapes hung in packed clusters among the broad leaves. “I didn’t raise my boy to be a southpaw. I’ve a good mind to give Gleason a sock in the eye.”
Ben read painfully, pausing a moment later to snicker. Thus, like a child, he groped intently at all meanings, with scowling studiousness. Women liked to see him scowl and study so. He was sudden only in anger, and in his quick communications with his angel.
