The Professor’s House
said the old man with sly humour, remembering the
Professor’s glistening, barren shrubs and the good
ground wasted behind his stucco wall.
“How about your linden-trees?”
“Oh, dem flowers is awful good for de headache!”
“You don’t look as if you were subject to it, Fred.”
“Not me, but my woman always had.”
“Pretty lonesome without her, Applehoff?”
“I miss her, Professor, but I ain’t just lonesome.” The old man rubbed his bristly chin. “My Minna here is most like a person, and den I got so many t’ings to t’ink about.”
“Have you? Pleasant things, I hope?”
“Well, all kinds. When I was young, in de old country, I had it hard to git my wife at all, an’ I never had time to t’ink. When I come to dis country I had to work so turrible hard on dat farm to make crops an’ pay debts, dat I was like a horse. Now I have it easy, an’ I take time to t’ink about all dem t’ings.”
St. Peter laughed. “We all come to it, Applehoff. That’s one thing I’m renting your house for, to have room to think. Good morning.”
Crossing the public park, on his way back to the old house, he espied his professional rival and enemy, Professor Horace Langtry, taking a Sunday morning stroll—very well got up in English clothes
—52—
