Part 1 (2/2)
”Guess-sweed-better,” Whistlebinkie agreed through the top of his beaver, as usual.
And so the little couple set off down the hill, and were fortunate enough to find the old gentleman at home.
”Break it to him gently,” whispered Whistlebinkie.
”I will,” answered Mollie, under her breath, and then entering the Unwiseman's house she greeted him cheerily. ”Good Morning, Mr. Me,” she said.
”Is it?” asked the old gentleman, looking up from his newspaper which he was reading upside-down. ”I haven't tasted it yet. I never judge a day till it's been cooked.”
”Tasted it?” laughed Mollie. ”Can't you tell whether a morning is good or not without tasting it?”
”O I suppose you can if you want to,” replied the Unwiseman. ”If you make up your mind to believe everything you see, why you can believe a morning's good just by looking at it, but I prefer to taste mine before I commit myself as to whether they are good or bad.”
”Perfly-'bsoyd!” chortled Whistlebinkie through the top of his hat.
”What's that?” cried Mollie.
”Still talks through his hat, doesn't he,” said the Unwiseman. ”Must think it's one of these follytones.”
”Never-erd-o-sutcha-thing!” whistled Whistlebinkie. ”What's a follytone?”
”You _are_ a n.i.g.g.e.ramus,” jeered the Unwiseman. ”Ho! Never heard of a follytone. Ain't he silly, Mollie?”
”I don't think I ever heard of one either, Mr. Unwiseman,” said Mollie.
”Well-well-well,” e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the Unwiseman in great surprise. ”Why a follytone is one of those little boxes you have in the house with a number like 7-2-3-J-Hokoben that you talk business into to some feller off in Chicago or up in Boston. You just pour your words into the box and they fall across a wire and go scooting along like lightning to this person you're talkin' to.”
”Oh,” laughed Mollie. ”You mean a telephone.”
”I call 'em follytones,” said the Unwiseman coolly. ”Your voice sounds so foolish over 'em. I never tried 'em but once”--here the old man began to chuckle. ”Somebody told me Philadelphia wanted me, and of course I knew right away they were putting up a joke on me because I ain't never met Philadelphia and Philadelphia ain't never met me, so I just got a little squirt gun and filled it up with water and squirted it into the box. I guess whoever was trying to make me believe he was Philadelphia got a good soaking that time.”
”I guess-smaybe-he-didn't,” whistled Whistlebinkie.
”Well he didn't get me anyhow,” snapped the Unwiseman. ”You don't catch me sending my voice to Philadelphia when the chances are I may need it any minute around here to frighten burgulars away with. The idea of a man's being so foolish as to send his voice way out to Chicago on a wire with n.o.body to look after it, stumps me. But that ain't what we were talking about.”
”No,” said Mollie gravely. ”We were talking about tasting days. You said you cooked them, I believe.”
”That's what I said,” said the Unwiseman.
”I never knew anybody else to do it,” said Mollie. ”What do you do it for?”
”Because I find raw days very uncomfortable,” explained the Unwiseman.
”I prefer fried-days.”
”Everyday'll be Friday by and by,” carolled Whistlebinkie.
”It will with me,” said the old man. ”I was born on a Friday, I was never married on a Friday, and I dyed on Friday.”
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