Finch turned back angrily. Patronizing little beast, with his cheeky "My boy!"
"Let's see," said Piers, taking the ticket from Wakefield and examining it. "Well, I'll be shot if it isn't a lottery ticket! What are you going in for, young Finch? You're a deep one. Out to make a fortune, eh, unknown to your family? You're still a schoolboy, you know"—this taunt because of his failure to matriculate—"and you're not supposed to gamble."
"What's this?" demanded Renny, suspiciously. "Fetch it here."
Piers returned the ticket to its owner. "Take it to your big brother," he advised, "and then run upstairs for his shaving strop."
Finch, glaring, thrust the ticket in his pocket and lunged toward the hall.
"Come back here!" ordered Renny. "Now," he continued, as the boy reappeared, "just say what that lottery ticket is for."
"Good Lord!" bawled the goaded Finch. "Can't I buy a lottery ticket if I want to? You'd think I was an infant in arms!"
"You may buy a dozen if you wish, but I don't like the way you are acting about this one. What is it for?"
"It's for a canary, that's what it's for!" His voice was hoarse with anger. "If I can't buy a lottery ticket for a goddam canary it's a funny thing!"
The outburst of merriment that leaped from the lungs of his brothers and uncles could have been equalled in volume and vitality by few families. After the roar had subsided, Renny gave another of his metallic shouts. "A canary!" he repeated. "Next thing he'll be wanting a goldfish and a rubber plant!" But, though he laughed, in his heart he was deeply ashamed for Finch. He was fond of the boy. It was humiliating that he should be such a sissy—wanting to own a canary, of all things!
A vigorous thumping came from the bedroom across the hall.
