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those times, and as usual the person she was talking to wasn't listening. |
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Driver shoved the mail aside and picked up the morning paper. Soon enough she would get the message; he wasn't in the mood for talking. Frazier probably knew that would happen. He had probably already figured out what Driver would do with the useless object. Furthermore, Frazier was probably already on his plane, winging his way back stateside and released from active duty. But most of all, he knew Frazier would be laughing about the hoax he had perpetrated. And what had Driver gotten out of it? Nothing except a pointless glass jar filled with something tasteless, some kind of joke that Flora Saint Quentin was trying to identify while all Harry Driver really got out of it was a continuing line of whining chatter. |
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"Hey," Harry finally grunted, "if you don't want the damn thing sitting around your kitchen, throw it away." |
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The woman shifted her attention from the jar to the old electric clock over the sink. "Glory be, Colonel, are you keepin' track of the time?" |
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Driver checked his watch, folded up his paper and pushed himself away from the table. The maple-flavored oatmeal had been completely ignored, and because the old woman had chattered on endlessly about the |
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