to her, after I'd looked over the paper and listened in on the radio a little—though I remember there wasn't anything on then except the daily stock-receipt reports from the Omaha packing yards.
She brightens up and tries to look kittenish and makes out like she doesn't know, and she says, "No, what?"
"It's the day—or it will be the evening—of the Kid Milligan—Pooch Federstein fight, and we better invite in some of the folks and listen to the fight on the radio," I says.
Well sir, the poor kid, she certainly did look awful' down in the mouth. I didn't know whether she was going to be plucky, or whether she'd bawl me out—I got to admit she does, sometimes. But she was game and didn't say anything, and pretty soon, 'long about fifteen, maybe twenty minutes, I suggested we go out and have a little walk before dinner. Well, meantime, you get me, I'd had the fellow bring this Chevrolet coop around and park it right in front of the house.
