Then Uncle Peter coaxed Skinski off in a corner and there they
hobnobbed for fifteen minutes while my wife and her aunt and I
tried to get cheerful and chatty with "Aunt Flo," but we only
succeeded in dragging from her four reluctant "You betcher sweets!"
Presently Uncle Peter and Skinski shook hands about something, and
five minutes later Bunch's "relatives" took their departure to the
accompaniment of much internal applause on my part.
"Mr. McGowan is a very accomplished gentleman," Uncle Peter
decided; "but handicapped by a most depressing wife, most
depressing. The Blue Hills, eh! the Blue Hills! Now, I wonder----"
Then he began to whistle softly and went into the dining-room.
Monday morning, bright and early, I met Bunch, and we buried the
hatchet.
"I hope my beloved relatives didn't disgrace me while sojourning in
your midst," he chuckled.
"Not at all," I answered airily. "Why, Uncle Cornelius was the hit
of the season with Uncle Peter, though, of course, Aunt Flora
didn't make good with that 'You betcher sweet!' monologue of hers.
How could she? Even at that, she stands better with me than some
conversational queens I know who get so busy with the gab they make
me dizzy."
About noon Bunch and I ducked for New Rochelle to do a bit of
advance work for our show.
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