nd was in the bottom of a bottle. Barney was one of
those poor folks born fifty years too late.

Or you take Miss Alice Markey, the history teacher at Fremont High.
She's an old spinster--frail, white-haired, and a little bit crabby
now. You'd never believe it but she used to be the romantic type.
Somehow, the right man just never came along, but she's never given up
hoping either.

Sure, you wouldn't believe it to look at them. But that's how people
are, down underneath. All dreams and wishful thinking.

"It's tough, Joe," I says, "but what can you do about it?"

It always seemed to me that you weren't going to help people by
letting them fall asleep on a couch at fifty dollars a nap and trying
to convince them they should give up their dreams.

"You've got to give people something _positive_!" Joe says, hitting an
end table with his fist so an ashtray jumps off.

I sat up and began to take notice. Once Joe had an idea, he usually
did something about it.

"You got something in mind," I accused.

He stopped pacing and pointed his pipe at me like it was the working
end of a twenty-two rifle. "I got an idea, Harry," he says, the genius
showing in his eyes like the dollar signs in a cash register. "I'm
going to make a machine during my vacation and...."

And then Marge is in the doorway, dishtowel in her hand and little
anger spots in her cheeks. "Joseph Shannon!" she says, stamping her
foot. "You know perfectly well what we're going to do and where we're
going to go on your vacation!"

Joe's mouth got set and I could see a storm blowing up so I struggled
to my feet and got my hat. "That was awful nice chili, Missus
Shannon," I says, and it isn't much more than two seconds later when
I'm out the front door and walking up the sidewalk.

* * * * *

Well, Joe--stubborn Irishman that he was--stayed right in town during
his vacation. He had a laboratory in the basement and every day when I
went by I could hear him and Wally Claus, his assistant, working down
there, hammering and nailing and running electric motors that spat
sparks and whined worse'n two alley cats fightin' in a fish market.

On the day that it's finished, Joe invites me over for dinner again.
After the meal's over--and Joe's so anxious that he don't even tell
Marge how nice the tuna fish casserole was--we go down into the
basement. Marge doesn't come along.

"What's the matter with Marge?" I ask. "Ain't she intere