Charles E. Burchfield (1893-1967)

 “Wait a minute, I’m going in here and get my collars.”  I couldn’t very well go out to Kings lugging a bunch of collars.  “Come on you ronyon” Bill cried wrathfully “let’s hurry out to Kings”
“Oh I don’t want to go out again.  We’ve been out once and his cousin will think we’re rump-feds.”
“Come on out.  I want a game of cards” and stood in my way as I attempted to go in the laundry.
Back and forth we shoved and pushed, arguing the while and begging each other to be real ronyons.  Finally I escaped and sprang into the laundry (getting my collars, which luckily happened to be ready.)  (Luckily my collars happened to be ready)
“Oh you verily are a ronyon" said Bill as I came out again. He was chagrined I thought.  But I had stubbornly made up my mind not to go out again.
“Come on, you ronyon (how many times we used that word today!)  I’ll go as far as Fourth St. with you”
“Oh how kind of you!  Come on”
We walked on, arguing ourselves to boredom pieces over whether we should go out or not.  Naturally, neither of us would give in now no matter what we thought about it.  When we came to Fourth St.