Part 2
"If that bag can't support a ten-year-old boy, who's thirteen pounds underweight for
his age, I don't want it in my cabin," Mrs. McArdle said, without opening her eyes.
"You know what I'd like to do?" Mr. McArdle said. "I'd like to kick your goddam head
open."
"Why don't you?"
Mr. McArdle abruptly propped himself up on one elbow and squashed out his
cigarette stub on the glass top of the night table. "One of these days--" he began grimly.
"One of these days, you're going to have a tragic, tragic heart attack," Mrs. McArdle
said, with a minimum of energy. Without bringing her arms into the open, she drew her
top sheet more tightly around and under her body. "There'll be a small, tasteful funeral,
and everybody's going to ask who that attractive woman in the red dress is, sitting there
in the first row, flirting with the organist and making a holy--"
"You're so goddam funny it isn't even funny," Mr. McArdle said, lying inertly on his
back again.
During this little exchange, Teddy had faced around and resumed looking out of the
porthole. "We passed the Queen Mary at three-thirty-two this morning, going the other
way, if anybody's interested," he said slowly. "Which I doubt." His voice was oddly and
beautifully rough cut, as some small boys' voices are. Each of his phrasings was rather
like a little ancient island, inundated by a miniature sea of whiskey. "That deck steward
Booper despises had it on his blackboard."
"I'll Queen Mary you, buddy, if you don't get off that bag this minute," his father said.
He turned his head toward Teddy. "Get down from there, now. Go get yourself a haircut
or something." He looked at the back of his wife's head again. "He looks precocious, for
God's sake."
"I haven't any money," Teddy said. He placed his hands more securely on the sill of
the porthole, and lowered his chin onto the backs of his fingers. "Mother. You know that
man who sits right next to us in the dining room? Not the very thin one. The other one,
at the same table. Right next to where our waiter puts his tray down."
"Mm-hmm," Mrs. McArdle said. "Teddy. Darling. Let Mother sleep just five minutes
more, like a sweet boy."
"Wait just a second. This is quite interesting," Teddy said, without raising his chin
from its resting place and without taking his eyes off the ocean. "He was in the gym a
little while ago, while Sven was weighing me. He came up and started talking to me. He
heard that last tape I made. Not the one in April. The one in May. He was at a party in
Boston just before he went to Europe, and somebody at the party knew somebody in the
Leidekker examining group--he didn't say who--and they borrowed that last tape I made
and played it at the party. He seems very interested in it. He's a friend of Professor
Babcock's. Apparently he's a teacher himself. He said he was at Trinity College in
Dublin, all summer."
"Oh?" said Mrs. McArdle. "At a party they played it?" She lay gazing sleepily at the
backs of Teddy's legs.
"I guess so," Teddy said. "He told Sven quite a bit about me, right while I was standing
there. It was rather embarrassing."
"Why should it be embarrassing?"
Teddy hesitated. "I said `rather' embarrassing. I qualified it."
"I'll qualify you, buddy, if you don't get the hell off that bag," Mr. McArdle said. He had
just lit a fresh cigarette. "I'm going to count three. One, God damn it ... Two.. ."
"What time is it?" Mrs. McArdle suddenly asked the backs of Teddy's legs. "Don't you
and Booper have a swimming lesson at ten-thirty?"
"We have time," Teddy said. "--Vloom!" He suddenly thrust his whole head out of the
porthole, kept it there a few seconds, then brought it in just long enough to report,
"Someone just dumped a whole garbage can of orange peels out the window."
"Out the window. Out the window," Mr. McArdle said sarcastically, flicking his ashes.
"Out the porthole, buddy, out the porthole." He glanced over at his wife. "Call Boston.
Quick, get the Leidekker examining group on the phone."
"Oh, you're such a brilliant wit," Mrs. McArdle said. "Why do you try?"
"If that bag can't support a ten-year-old boy, who's thirteen pounds underweight for
his age, I don't want it in my cabin," Mrs. McArdle said, without opening her eyes.
"You know what I'd like to do?" Mr. McArdle said. "I'd like to kick your goddam head
open."
"Why don't you?"
Mr. McArdle abruptly propped himself up on one elbow and squashed out his
cigarette stub on the glass top of the night table. "One of these days--" he began grimly.
"One of these days, you're going to have a tragic, tragic heart attack," Mrs. McArdle
said, with a minimum of energy. Without bringing her arms into the open, she drew her
top sheet more tightly around and under her body. "There'll be a small, tasteful funeral,
and everybody's going to ask who that attractive woman in the red dress is, sitting there
in the first row, flirting with the organist and making a holy--"
"You're so goddam funny it isn't even funny," Mr. McArdle said, lying inertly on his
back again.
During this little exchange, Teddy had faced around and resumed looking out of the
porthole. "We passed the Queen Mary at three-thirty-two this morning, going the other
way, if anybody's interested," he said slowly. "Which I doubt." His voice was oddly and
beautifully rough cut, as some small boys' voices are. Each of his phrasings was rather
like a little ancient island, inundated by a miniature sea of whiskey. "That deck steward
Booper despises had it on his blackboard."
"I'll Queen Mary you, buddy, if you don't get off that bag this minute," his father said.
He turned his head toward Teddy. "Get down from there, now. Go get yourself a haircut
or something." He looked at the back of his wife's head again. "He looks precocious, for
God's sake."
"I haven't any money," Teddy said. He placed his hands more securely on the sill of
the porthole, and lowered his chin onto the backs of his fingers. "Mother. You know that
man who sits right next to us in the dining room? Not the very thin one. The other one,
at the same table. Right next to where our waiter puts his tray down."
"Mm-hmm," Mrs. McArdle said. "Teddy. Darling. Let Mother sleep just five minutes
more, like a sweet boy."
"Wait just a second. This is quite interesting," Teddy said, without raising his chin
from its resting place and without taking his eyes off the ocean. "He was in the gym a
little while ago, while Sven was weighing me. He came up and started talking to me. He
heard that last tape I made. Not the one in April. The one in May. He was at a party in
Boston just before he went to Europe, and somebody at the party knew somebody in the
Leidekker examining group--he didn't say who--and they borrowed that last tape I made
and played it at the party. He seems very interested in it. He's a friend of Professor
Babcock's. Apparently he's a teacher himself. He said he was at Trinity College in
Dublin, all summer."
"Oh?" said Mrs. McArdle. "At a party they played it?" She lay gazing sleepily at the
backs of Teddy's legs.
"I guess so," Teddy said. "He told Sven quite a bit about me, right while I was standing
there. It was rather embarrassing."
"Why should it be embarrassing?"
Teddy hesitated. "I said `rather' embarrassing. I qualified it."
"I'll qualify you, buddy, if you don't get the hell off that bag," Mr. McArdle said. He had
just lit a fresh cigarette. "I'm going to count three. One, God damn it ... Two.. ."
"What time is it?" Mrs. McArdle suddenly asked the backs of Teddy's legs. "Don't you
and Booper have a swimming lesson at ten-thirty?"
"We have time," Teddy said. "--Vloom!" He suddenly thrust his whole head out of the
porthole, kept it there a few seconds, then brought it in just long enough to report,
"Someone just dumped a whole garbage can of orange peels out the window."
"Out the window. Out the window," Mr. McArdle said sarcastically, flicking his ashes.
"Out the porthole, buddy, out the porthole." He glanced over at his wife. "Call Boston.
Quick, get the Leidekker examining group on the phone."
"Oh, you're such a brilliant wit," Mrs. McArdle said. "Why do you try?"
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