"My lovin' parents was on the brink of gettin' a divorce, but I patched all that up!"
"Why did they want to separate, Pete?" I asked him.
"Oh, nothin' in particular," says Pete, "but they been wed over fifty years now and they're kind of beginnin' to get on each other's nerves!"
A loud and unseemly chuckle from Hazel appeared to steam Pete and he shut up like our useful friend, the clam.
Well, honestly, by this time it was getting as dark as Harry Wills and we seemed to have lost our way. Jerry, a total loss, had crashed asleep, and Pete didn't look exactly like a victim of insomnia. The alarmed Hazel said the road we were on wasn't even faintly familiar to her.
We came to a deserted crossroads in the gloom and I sent Pete ahead to read the sign-post. After using up a box of matches trying to read the sign, Pete stag: gered back.
"Well, what does it say on that sign?" I asked him impatiently.
"Hic—I think it says—hic—no smokin' allowed!" answers Pete, and collapses under the wagon wheels, burying his face to the hilt in the mud. Ain't we got fun?
However, we finally arrived at the home of Pete's
