"John B. Gough!" he exclaimed bitterly--profanely.
"He's swearing," warned his sister. "Look out, Uncle Maje, or he'll say
'Gamboge' next."
"I don't care," retorted the indignant follower; "you can't have a train
without any passenger--it's silly. I don't care if I do say Gamboge.
There! Gamboge it!"
I turned upon him. I had endured "terrapin-buzzards," hurled at the
group by my woman child, perceiving need of relief for her pent-up
passion. I had, moreover, for the same reason, permitted my namesake to
roll under his tongue the formidable and satisfying expletive, "John B.
Gough!" But I felt that the line must be drawn at Gamboge.
Terrapin-buzzards was bad enough, though it was true that this might be
used innocently, as in a moment of mild dismay, or as an exclamation of
mere astonishment without sinister import. But Gamboge!--and ripped out
brazenly as it had been?--No! A thousand times No!
"Calvin," I said sternly, "aren't you ashamed to use such
language--before me--and before your little sister?"
But here the little sister sank beneath her true woman's level by
saying:--
"I know worse than that--Dut!"
With a look of deadly coldness I sought to chill the pride that shone in
her eyes as she achieved this new enormity.
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