IXApple McCarthy seemed to be made unhappy by Nellie’s breakfast. He eyed sorrowfully the pile of griddle cakes on his plate. He poured maple syrup over them until his plate ran with gold. He took a tentative forkful, laid down his fork, swallowed a mouthful of the strong coffee lightened with heavy spooned cream, and reached for the platter of savory sausages. He chewed, staring at nothing, then pushed his plate aside.
“ ’Tis punishment,” he said, “nothing but punishment.”
Nellie lifted her eyebrows.
“What’s the complaint about my cooking, Mr. McCarthy?”
The little man beat his chest with his fists.
“ ‘Complaint!’ says she! ‘Complaint!’ ’Tis the cruelty of life I complain of, to be in Heaven and then kicked out again. Lucifer, that’s me, Lucifer McCarthy. If I could leave me stummick
