I've lapped up iron-and-wine, and whole
rivers of milk, and I've devoured rare porterhouse and
roast beef day after day for weeks. So! Eggs!"
"Mein Himmel!" ejaculated he, fervently, "And you
still live!" A suspicion of a smile dawned in his eyes.
I wondered if he ever laughed. I would experiment.
"Don't breathe it to a soul," I whispered,
tragically, "but eggs, and eggs alone, are turning my
love for my sister into bitterest hate. She stalks me
the whole day long, forcing egg mixtures down my
unwilling throat. She bullies me. I daren't put out my
hand suddenly without knocking over liquid refreshment in
some form, but certainly with an egg lurking in its
depths. I am so expert that I can tell an egg orangeade
from an egg lemonade at a distance of twenty yards, with
my left hand tied behind me,and one eye shut, and my feet
in a sack."
"You can laugh, eh? Well, that iss good," commented
the grave and unsmiling one.
"Sure," answered I, made more flippant by his
solemnity. "Surely I can laugh. For what else was my
father Irish? Dad used to say that a sense of humor was
like a shillaly--an iligent thing to have around handy,
especially when the joke's on you.
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