Cheaper by the Dozen Read Free

see them, I see them," Dad would say irritably, although usually he didn't. "Don't you have any confidence at all in your father?"
    He was especially fond of the electric horn, an ear-splitting gadget which bellowed "kadookah" in an awe-inspiring, metallic baritone. How Dad could manage to blow this and the two bulb horns, step on the gas, steer the car, shout "road hog, road hog," and smoke a cigar—all at the same time— is in itself a tribute to his abilities as a motion study expert.
    A few days after he bought the car, he brought each of us children up to it, one at a time, raised the hood, and told us to look inside and see if we could find the birthe in the engine. While our backs were turned, he'd tiptoe back to the driver's seat—a jolly Santa Claus in mufti—and press down on the horn.
    "Kadookah, Kadookah." The horn blaring right in your ear was frightening and you'd jump away in hurt amazement Dad would laugh until the tears came to his eyes.
    "Did you see the birdie? Ho, ho, ho," he'd scream. "I'll bet you jumped six and nine-tenths indies. Ho, ho, ho."
    One day, while we were returning from a particularly trying picnic, the engine balked, coughed, spat, and stopped.
    Dad was sweaty and sleepy. We children had gotten on his nerves. He ordered us out of the car, which was overheated and steaming. He wrestled with the back seat to get the tools. It was stuck and he kicked it. He took off his coat, tolled up his sleeves, and raised the left-hand side of the hood.
    Dad seldom swore. Ah occasional "damn," perhaps, but he believed in setting a good example. Usually he studs to such phrases as "by jingo" and "holy Moses." He said them both now, only there was something frightening in the way he tolled them out.
    His head and shoulders disappeared into the inside of the hood. You could see his shirt, wet through, sticking to his back.
    Nobody noticed Bill. He had crawled into the front seat. And then—"Kadookah. Kadookah."
    Dad jumped so high he actually toppled into the engine, leaving his feet dangling in mid-air. His head butted the top of the hood and his right wrist came up against the red-hot exhaust pipe. You could hear the flesh sizzle. Finally he managed to extricate himself. He rubbed his head, and left grease across his forehead. He blew on the burned wrist. He was livid.
    "Jesus Christ," he screamed, as if he had been saving this oath since his wedding day for just such an occasion. "Holy Jesus Christ. Who did that?"
    "Mercy, Maud," said Mother, which was the closest she ever came to swearing, too.
    Bill, who was six and always in trouble anyway, was the only one with nerve enough to laugh. But it was a nervous laugh at that.
    "Did you see the birdie, Daddy?" he asked.
    Dad grabbed him, and Bill stopped laughing.
    "That was a good joke on you, Daddy," Bill said hopefully. But there wasn't much confidence in his voice.
    "There is a time," Dad said through his teeth, "and there is a place for birdies. And there is a time and place for spankings."
    "I'll bet you jumped six and nine-tenths inches, Daddy," said Bill, stalling for time, now.
    Dad relaxed and let him go. "Yes, Billy, by jingo," he said. "That was a good joke on me, and I suspect I did jump six and nine-tenths inches."
    Dad loved a joke on himself, all right. But he loved it best a few months after the joke was over, and not when it was happening. The story about Bill and the birthe became one of his favorites. No one ever laughed harder at the end of the story than Dad. Unless it was Bill. By jingo.

Chapter 3
Orphans in Uniform

    When Dad decided he wanted to take the family for an outing in the Pierce Arrow, he'd whistle assembly, and then ask: "How many want to go for a ride?"
    The question was purely rhetorical, for when Dad rode, everybody rode. So we'd all say we thought a ride would be fine.
    Actually, this would be pretty close to the truth. Although Dad's driving was fraught with peril, there was a strange fascination in its brushes