't good enough for 'em? Is that it?"

"Good enough!" Chug laughed rather grimly. "I'd like to know what's the
matter with it!"

There was, as a matter of fact, nothing the matter with it. It was as
spick and span as paint and polish could make it. The curtain-stretching
days were long past. There had even been talk of moving out of the house
by the tracks, but at the last moment Mrs. Scaritt had rebelled.

"I'll miss the sound of the trains. I'm used to 'em. It's got so I can
tell just where my right hand'll be when the seven fifty-two goes by in
the morning, and I've got used to putting on the potatoes when I hear
the 'leven-forty. Let's stay, Chug."

So they had stayed. Gradually they had added an improvement here, a
convenience there, as Chug's prosperity grew, until now the cottage by
the tracks was newly painted, bathroomed, electric-lighted, with a
cement walk front and back and a porch with a wicker swing and flower
baskets. Chug gave his mother more housekeeping money than she needed,
though she, in turn, served him meals that would have threatened the
waist-line of an older and less active man. There was a banana pie, for
instance (it sounds sickish, but wait!) which she baked in a deep pan,
and over which she poured a golden-brown custard all flecked with crusty
melted sugar. You took a bite and lo! it had vanished like a sweet
dewdrop, leaving in your mouth a taste as of nectar, and clover-honey,
and velvet cream.

Mrs. Scaritt learned to gauge Chug's plans for the evening by his
ablutions. Elaborate enough at any time, on dance nights they amounted
to a rite. In the old days Chug's father had always made a brief enough
business of the process he called washing up. A hand-basin in the
kitchen sink or on the back-porch bench sufficed. The noises he made
were out of all proportion to the results obtained. His snufflings, and
snortings, and splashings were like those of a grampus at play. When he
emerged from them you were surprised to find that he had merely washed
his face.

Chug had grease to fight. He had learned how in his first days at the
garage. His teacher had been old Rudie, a mechanic who had tinkered
around automobiles since their kerosene days, and who knew more about
them than their inventor. Soap and water alone were powerless against
the grease and carbon and dust that ground themselves into Chug's skin.
First, he lathered himself with warm, soapy water. Then, while arms,
neck, and face we