it was a “chump” name, like Elmer and Roy; a hayseed name trying to be fine.  In country schools there was always a red-headed, warty-handed, runny-nosed little boy who was called Claude.  His good physique he took for granted; smooth, muscular arms and legs, and strong shoulders, a farmer boy might be supposed to have.  Unfortunately he had none of his father’s physical repose, and his strength often asserted itself inharmoniously.  The storms that went on in his mind sometimes made him rise, or sit down, or lift something, more violently than there was any apparent reason for his doing.

The household slept late on Sunday morning; even Mahailey did not get up until seven.  The general signal for breakfast was the smell of doughnuts frying.  This morning Ralph rolled out of bed at the last minute and callously put on his clean underwear without taking a bath.  This cost him not one regret, though he took time to polish his new ox-blood shoes tenderly with a pocket handkerchief.  He reached the table when all the others were half through breakfast, and made his peace by genially asking his mother if she didn’t want him to drive her to church in the car.

“I’d like to go if I can get the work done in time,” she said, doubtfully glancing at the clock.

“Can’t Mahailey tend to things for you this morning?”

Mrs. Wheeler hesitated.  “Everything but the separator, she can.  But she can’t fit all the parts together.  It’s a good deal of work, you know.”

“Now, Mother,” said Ralph good-humouredly, as he emptied the syrup pitcher over his cakes, “you’re prejudiced.  Nobody ever thinks of skimming milk now-a-days.  Every up-to-date farmer uses a separator.”

Mrs. Wheeler’s pale eyes twinkled.  “Mahailey and I will never be quite up-to-date, Ralph.  We’re old-fashioned, and I don’t know but you’d better let us be.  I could see the advantage of a separator if we milked half-a-dozen cows.  It’s a very ingenious machine.  But it’s a great deal more work to scald it and fit it together than it was to take care of the milk in the old way.”

“It won’t be when you get used to it,” Ralph assured her.  He was the chief mechanic of the Wheeler farm, and when the farm implements and the automobiles did not give him enough to do, he went to town and bought machines for the house.  As soon as Mahailey got used to a washing-machine or a churn, Ralph, to keep up with the bristling march of invention, brought home a still newer one.  The mechanical dish-washer she had never been able to use, and patent flat-irons and oil-stoves drove her wild.

Claude told his mother to go upstairs and dress; he would scald the separator while Ralph got the car ready.  He was still working at it when his brother came in from the garage to wash his hands.

“You really oughtn’t to load mother up with things like this, Ralph,” he exclaimed fretfully.  “Did you ever try washing this damned thing yourself?”