Take the particular morning which ushers in our story, although it might
have been any of twelve times three hundred others.
"Sammy!" This upon opening his door, then crossing to close the
conservative five inches of open window and over to the bedside for the
kissing him awake. "Sammy, get up!"
The snuggle away into the crotch of his elbow.
"Sammy! _Thu, thu_! I can't get him up! Sammy, a quarter to seven! You
want to be late? I can't get him up!"
"M-m-m-m-m-m!"
"You want your own clerks to beat you to business so they can say they
got a lazy boss?"
"I'm awake, ma." Reaching up to stroke her hair, thin and gray now, and
drawn back into an early-morning knob.
"Don't splash in the bath-room so this morning, Sammy; it's a shame for
the wall-paper."
"I won't"--drawing the cord of his robe about his waist, and as if they
did not both of them know just how faithfully disregarded would be that
daily admonition.
Then Mrs. Lipkind flung back the snowy sheets and bed-coverings, baring
the striped ticking of the mattress.
"Hurry, Sammy! I'm up so long I'm ready for my second cup of coffee."
"Two minutes." And off across the hall, whistling, towel across arm.
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