HORACE: What'd I tell, except--(_seeing the paper_) Um hum--what's this?
DORIS: (_trying to get it from him_) Horace, now _don't_ you (_a
tussle_) You great strong mean thing! Fussie! Make him _stop_.
(_She gets the paper by tearing it_.)
HORACE: My dad's around here--showing the college off to a politician.
If you don't come across with that sheet of mystery, I'll back you both
out there (_starts to do it_) and--
DORIS: Horace! You're just _horrid_.
HORACE: Sure I'm horrid. That's the way I want to be. (_takes the paper,
reads_)
'To Eben
You are the idol of my dreams
I worship from afar.'
What is this?
FUSSIE: Now, listen, Horace, and don't you _tell_. You know Eben Weeks.
He's the homeliest man in school. Wouldn't you say so?
HORACE: Awful jay. Like to get some of the jays out of here.
DORIS: But listen. Of course, no girl would _look_ at him. So we've
thought up the most _killing_ joke, (_stopped by giggles from herself
and_ FUSSIE) Now, he hasn't handed in his Matthew Arnold dope. I heard
old Mac hold him up for it--and what'd you think he said? That he'd been
_ploughing_. Said he was trying to run a farm and go to college at the
same time! Isn't it a _scream_?
HORACE: We oughta--make it more unpleasant for some of those jays.
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