The Cockroaches of Stay More by Donald Harington

hearing and he knew that they were exchanging polite leave-takings, neither meaning sincerely the formalities he said. Squire Hank would not even consider actually inviting his best friend to Parthenon, and Doc Swain wasn’t really interested in having Squire Hank sleep over through the day. But still the old roosterroaches continued for at least fifteen minutes:
    “Caint do that, I reckon. Whyn’t ye jist come along down to my place?”
    “Better not. You make yoreself pleasant and stay the whole day.”
    “Time to light out fer home. Come and keep me company.”
    “Not tonight, Squar. You jist move in here and have you some vittles.”
    “Thank ye, Doc, but I’m a mind to git on home. You come with me.”
    Neither roosterroach was willing to yield the last word to the other, and thus these invitations and declinings and counter-invitations continued through infinite variations, until finally Doc Swain made a slight change:
    “Wal, come again, then, and fix to stay a week.”
    “If you’ll come stay a week with me, first. Let’s go.”
    “Won’t do it tonight, I reckon, Hank. You keep a eye out for the White Mouse for me.”
    “I’ll watch fer ’im. See ye tomorrow night.”
    Squire Hank got the last word, and Doc, as a courtesy, let him have it, and Squire Hank hitched up his gitalongs and shuffled along homeward. Sam waited a little while, until his father was completely out of sight and sniff. Doc Swain was alone now, crouched upon his porch, his sniffwhips lying at rest alongside his body, his wise old eyes staring outward into the blackness with a sad expression, as if he were still thinking about The Bomb.
    Doc’s sniffwhips snapped to attention as Sam approached. He required a full second to recognize Sam, and then he spat and said, “Wal, if it aint Samuel! Aint seen you in a locust’s age, my boy.”
    Sam could not hear this, but he said, “Hidy, Doc. How’s ever little thing with you?”
    “Jist fine,” Doc said. “I’m same as usual but what about you? I figgered that Clock had done went and et ye.”
    Sam decided not to pretend further that he could hear, and told the kindly physician, “Doc, I’m near about deaf.”
    “Huh? Wal, it aint no wonder, that old Clock has done et yore tailprongs, maybe. Want I should look ’em over fer ye?”
    Nor did Sam hear this. Doc repeated himself, louder, and Sam saw his mouth working and even felt a waft of his voice along his sniffwhips, but his tailprongs registered no sound. “Am I getting old, Doc?” he asked.
    “That aint it. Here, let me have a look at yore prongs,” Doc insisted and moved around and lifted and lowered each of Sam’s cerci, counting the articles on each. “Nineteen is the most anybody could hope to have, per prong,” Doc assured him, then minutely examined the filaments on each article. “They’re all clean as new pins,” he remarked. “No blasphemy meant.” He abruptly bit one prong.
    “Ouch!” Sam said.
    “Reckon whatever it is,” declared Doc, “it aint likely organic but functional. Know what I think? Samuel, my young friend, I’m afraid that Clock has done went and stunned yore prongs beyond repair. Most all yore life you’ve heared that Clock strike ever hour much too close. It would drive anybody deef.”
    Sam heard none of this, but he asked, desperately, “What can I do ?”
    “Wouldn’t do ye no good to move out of the Clock now, I’m afeared,” Doc said. “The damage is done done.”
    “I caint hear you, Doc,” Sam said.
    “I SAID, THE DAMAGE IS DONE DONE!” Doc shouted. “WHAT I RECKON YOU NEED IS, IS A WIFE TO TAKE KEER OF YE!”
    Sam heard this, and blushed. “Aw, Doc…”
    “I fergot,” Doc apologized. “None of you Ingledews has ever had the least bit of nerve when it comes to courtin females. How’re we gonna git ye a wife?” Since Sam could not hear this, Doc was talking more to himself than to Sam, but he was good at that, and continued, “Of course, any gal in Stay