Some Buried Caesar

I lifted the form, strolled gracefully over, deposited it, acquired her left hand, and studied the palm. "It's like this," I told her. "You will be very happy for a while, then you will take a long journey under water and will meet a bald-headed man sitting on some seaweed who you will think is William Beebe but who- will begin talking to you in Russian. Not understanding Russian, you will take it for granted that you get the idea, but will discover to your horror that he was talking about something else. Give me the other hand to compare."

Jimmy Pratt, meanwhile, was haranguing his uncle. "… and you sit there and let him call you trash! I'd have liked to smack him! I would have smacked him-"

"Now, Jimmy." Pratt waved a hand. He chuckled. "You wouldn't smack an Osgood, would you? Take it easy, son. By the way, since you seem to be feeling belligerent, maybe you'd like to help out a little with that bull. I'm afraid we'll have to keep an eye on him all night. How about a little sentry duty?"

"Well, sir…" Jimmy looked uncomfortable. "The fact is… I've already told you… I don't approve of that. It seems to me a bull like that… a champion and so on…"

"You wouldn't like to help us guard him?"

"I'd appreciate it if you'd leave me out of that. Uncle Tom."

"All right. I guess we can manage somehow. – What's your feeling about it, Mr. Wolfe? Haven't I got a right to eat my own bull?"