One On The House Read Online Free Page A

that ol’ bull-moth fly outa that roll!” Mrs. Feeley laughed.
    Mr. Flink looked offended but paid the entire tab.
    “Never have I been accused of being miserly. When I am with ladies I admire, I never allow them to treat.”
    Mrs. Feeley was not impressed.
    “How come you ain’t got more friends then? How come you’re tryin’ to pick us up all the time? Looks to me like you’d have to be beatin’ the bags off with a stick!”
    “Because I was raised up genteel, that’s why. I admire refined ladies—and alas, they are so few.”
    “Don’t see no harm in you buyin’ us a few beers an’ chattin’…long as you keep your manners about you an’ don’t try nothin’ on!”
    Mr. Flink produced his wallet.
    “I am a veteran of the First World War, a retired lock-expert from the largest factory of time-locks in the world, and a member in good standing of the Woodmen of the World.”
    Mrs. Rasmussen looked at Mr. Flink, then back at Mrs. Feeley. “Wouldn’t hardly be no sex-maniacs in the Woodmen o’ the World?” she queried.
    “Eminently respectable!” Miss Tinkham declared. “Almost as good as carrying an umbrella and a copy of the Atlantic Monthly.”
    “You’re in like Flynn!” Mrs. Feeley laughed.
    “Mrs. Feeley!” Miss Tinkham raised her lorgnette. “Are you sure you read all the details of that case?”
    “I’m talkin’ about the one that laid them pavin’ blocks. Say, Mr. Flink, do you know how much it costs to buy a television set?”
    “They start at around two hundred and fifty and run up into the thousands, Mrs….uh, Mrs….”
    “Feeley! Dammit! Feeley! Up to the thousands?”
    “Yes, Mrs. Feeley. But don’t be in a hurry. The price is coming down every day.”
    “We gotta buy one right away,” Mrs. Rasmussen said.
    “Nothing could be more ideal during those long winter evenings in Alaska! The house will be crowded with admiring and envious spectators.” Miss Tinkham could see the set in operation.
    “Alaska?” Mr. Flink squeaked. “You live as far away as Alaska?” He looked despairingly at Mrs. Rasmussen.
    “San Diego,” she said. “The set’s goin’ to Alaska.”
    “What about the reception?” he asked.
    “They ain’t havin’ no reception,” Mrs. Feeley said. “No parties up there. It’s for our niece an’ nephew’s own self. They’ll be tickled to death to get it.”
    “Lived in San Diego long, Mrs….ah…Mrs….?” he went back to Mrs. Rasmussen.
    “Mrs. Rasmussen. Erna Rasmussen,” Miss Tinkham slipped lightly over the formalities.
    “Lived there long, Mrs. Rat-mutton?”
    “Rasmussen! Not Rat-mutton, Slope Head!” Mrs. Feeley laughed. “That sure didn’t boost your stock any!”
    “Pardon me,” he said. “It is Mrs.?”
    “Mrs.,” she said.
    “I’m the only one that missed: Miss Agnes Harriet Tinkham!”
    Mr. Flink’s eyes, the shape and color of the erasers on lead pencils, slid back to Mrs. Rasmussen. He picked up his beer mug and drained it, still peering at her over the rim. When he set it down, he emitted an eructation that had everything in it but kettledrums.
    “Par’on me,” he said.
    Even Mrs. Feeley was taken aback.
    “That’s better out than your eye,” she said at last.
    “Really, you could understudy Lionel Barrymore in Rasputin.” Miss Tinkham put up her lorgnette.
    “I missed my dinner,” Mr. Flink said.
    The ladies looked at each other. He had followed them since five o’clock in the afternoon. They had filled themselves generously with lobster and French fries while he stood emptily outside on the chance that the beautiful lady of his mind would appear.
    “Aw, the poor little man!” Mrs. Feeley cried.
    “I could do with a bite myself,” Mrs. Rasmussen said.
    “My treat,” Mr. Flink said.
    Mrs. Feeley stared hard at him for a moment.
    “You’re always bringin’ up the subject o’ payin’: nobody’s ever liked you for anythin’ but to pay the bill, have they? That’s why money’s so important