“Do you ever call each other pet names?” I ast him.
“Sure, all the while,” he says. “I don’t think we’ve used our regular first names back and forth since we got engaged.”
“How many factories did you visit, all told?” I says.
“Oh, I couldn’t keep track o’ them all,” he says. “Besides, I don’t think neither one of us really paid any attention to them. We was thinkin’ of each other all the time.”
“Yes,” I says, “and probably figurin’ on some new pet name to spring. What was you doin’ when you wasn’t inspectin’ machinery?”
“Just walkin’ round, drinkin’ in the fresh air,” says Quinn.
“Did you drink in the breweries at Milwaukee?” says I.
“Drink!” he says. “We didn’t need no liquor; we got intoxicated just lookin’ into one another’s eyes.”
“I’ve looked in your eyes a lot o’ times,” I says, “without even feelin’ like I wanted to sing tenor.”
“You ought to see her eyes!” Quinn says. “They’d intoxicate you, all right.”
“She must have regular bourbon eyeballs,” says I. “If I ever do want a cheap jag I’ll come out and call.”
“We’d be tickled to death to have you,” he says. “Only, o’ course, not for a while. We want to be left entirely to ourselves for a few weeks.”
“I suppose that’s why you come home from Kenosha,” says I. “The townspeople there must of just bothered the life out of you.”