Michael Malone - Weebly

compartment door that the rector was tugging on.
"Oh," Highwick turned to add in his pleasant,
whispery voice, "there's quite a mess in the bowl."
"Ah."
"It doesn't flush. What's happened to the railroads?
Things used to flush." The rector jerked his white shoe
loose from the sliding door it was stuck in and was
gone. He had someone newer to talk to: Carl Marco's
son, Carl, Jr.—the very good-looking Argyle eye
doctor.
"Praise God." Highwick continued his conversation
where he'd left off. "I have the eyes of a hawk. My
mother's eyes. She's ninety-two and she paints the
entire Nativity on coffee mugs for the missionary
Christmas box. She's an artist, always was."
"Gee, that's nice."
"But poor Jonathan. I liked those eyes you gave
him, Carl, I told him so. Still, it's a shame. Nothing
wrong with my eyes. Lately I have been wondering if
I'm not getting a sore throat though. Scratchy.
Take a look here, would you? AAAAaaaahhhhh.
Down 'ere…'ee any'ing?"