‘Like hell he has,’ said Frank. ‘Say-Frank, it costs a hundred-thousand dollars to make a Krupp gun and eighty dollars ev’ry time you fire it.’ ‘Like hell it does,’ said Frank. ‘Say-Frank, it ain’t a felony to croak a burglar with a gun even if he’s only breakin’ into somebody else’s house.’ ‘Like hell it ain’t,’ said Frank. ‘Say-Frank, my mother goes huntin’, too--she can shoot rabbits and ducks on the wing and once she got a deer with that big old .44 o’ my Uncle Walt’s.’ ‘Like hell she did,’ said Frank. ‘Say-Frank--listen, will you gimme your gun for my bicycle, both my catcher’s gloves and four dollars when I get paid?’ ‘Like hell I will,’ said Frank. ‘Say-Frank--listen, will you gimme it for my bicycle, my two catcher’s gloves, four dollars when I get paid and my shepherd pup?’ ‘Like hell I will,’ said Frank. ‘Say-Frank--listen,--and my artificial snake?’ ‘Like hell,’ said Frank. ‘Say-Frank--listen,--and my half o’ Ernest’s camera?’ ‘Like hell,’ said Frank. ‘Say-Frank--listen,--and my last year’s shin-guards?’ ‘Like hell,’ said Frank. ‘Say-Frank--_listen_,--and my _this_ year’s shin-guards?’ ‘Like _hell_,’ said Frank. ‘Say-Frank, come right down to it I don’t want a .22. If I get a gun this year it’ll be a .32.’ ‘Like he--’-- * * * * * Which point I felt to be the too-note of the helliad, so I rose and came into the house. I felt replete with rhythm and with a sense of surprising human attitudes remote from my own. _Swift go my days_ To-morrow Swift, Swift go my days. By rights I think time should drag with me, for I am wasting my portion of life as I live it. But my days pass Swift--Swift, Swift. They come, they fly away--before I know. I’m thinking it is Tuesday: but while I’m thinking--Wednesday has come: and gone: and Thursday is rushing in. Tuesday, blue-and-gold or gray-and-silver, with its mornings and nights and bits of food and openings of doors and thinkings: Wednesday with the same equipment: Thursday the same. Each day comes and goes like a flash of filmed silvered garbled light. But there is time in each for me to touch the enchanted Everydayness: time for the turbulent sly delight of tasting, smelling, feeling the eternal humors and romances in each small thing near me--my Clock, my Window, my Jar of Cold Cream, my Two Thumbs. There is time in each day for it to make me pay a wearing glimmering feverish homage to the mystic daily godhead. My life exacts terrific homages from me. I am wearing out--frailly, tiredly, from a desolate uneasy love of living. It is why my days go Swift when by rights time should drag leadenly in punishment for barbarous futileness.