Then he would say, “I'm going down to the corner and kill the evening.” Mom always told him that he ought to keep away from those bums down in the corner saloon, and if he wanted to kill an evening they would call on the Whimples.
Pop told her that he wanted to kill the evening, not to torture it.
Mom always started to cry then and pop would pat her on the back with whatever he had in his hand, generally a lamp or a rung out of the chair. We used to have cane bottom chairs without the cane, and when visitors sat in them it was like falling through a trap door.
So pop would take his hat off again and say, “All right; I'll assassinate the evening at home.”
But first he would butter the inside of a tin kettle so the bartender couldn't fill it with foam and then go down and get some beer on tick. That meant the bartender would trust pop for a dime and the Whimples would call and Mr. Whimple's hand would tremble so that he trembled the kettle empty.
Well, good,by, and don't forget to write.
