"Awful，" I reported. "Some sort of sour fish. Eel， I think."

    "Good. Your college sons have hired their younger brothers and sisters and a couple of neighborhood children to help for five dollars each. Assembly lines have been set up. In the language of diplomacy， there is 'movement.'"

    "That's encouraging."

    "No， it's not，" she corrected. "It's very discouraging. They're been as it for hours. Plastic bags have been filled and piled to the ceiling， but all this hasn't made a dent， not a dent， in the situation！ It's almost as if the inserts keep reproducing themselves！"

    "Another thing，" she continued. "Your college sons must learn that one does not get the best out of employees by threatening them with bodily harm.

    Obtaining an audience with son NO. 1， I snarled， "I'll kill you if threaten one of those kids again！ Idiot！ You should be offering a bonus of a dollar every hour to the worker who fills the most bags.

    "But that would cut into our profit，" he suggested.

    "There won't be any profit unless those kids enable you to make all the deliveries on time. If they don't， you two will have to remove all that paper by yourselves. And there will be no eating or sleeping until it is removed."

    There was a short， thoughtful silence. Then he said， "Dad， you have just worked a profound change in my personality."

    "Do it！"

    "Yes， sir！"

    By the following evening， there was much for my wife to report. The bonus program had worked until someone demanded to see the color of cash. Then some activist on the work force claimed that the workers had no business settling for $5 and a few competitive bonuses while the bossed collected hundreds of dollars each. The organizer had declared that all the workers were entitled to $5 per hour！ They would not work another minute until the bosses agreed.

    The strike lasted less than two hours. In mediation， the parties agreed on $2 per hour. Gradually， the huge stacks began to shrink.

    As it turned out， the job was completed three hours before Sunday's 7 a.m. deadline. By the time I arrived home， the boys had already settled their accounts： $150 in labor costs， $40 for gasoline， and a like amount

    for gifts—boxes of candy for saintly neighbors who had volunteered station wagons and help in delivery and dozen roses for their mother. This left them with $185 each — about two-thirds the minimum wage for the 91 hours they worked. Still， it was "enough"， as one of them put it， to enable them to "avoid indignity" for quite a while.

    All went well for some weeks. Then one Saturday morning my attention was drawn to the odd goings-on of our two youngest sons. They kept carrying carton after carton from various corners of the house out the front door to curbside. I assumed their mother had enlisted them to remove junk for a trash pickup. Then I overheard them discussing finances.

    "Geez， we're going to make a lot of money！"

    "We're going to be rich！"

    Investigation revealed that they were offering " for sale or rent" our entire library.

    "No！ No！" I cried. "You can't sell our books！"

    "Geez， Dad， we thought you were done with them！"

    "You're never 'done' with books，" I tried to explain.

    "Sure you are. You read them， and you're done with them. That's it. Then you might as well make a little money from them. We wanted to avoid the indignity of having to ask you for……"

    Phrases & Expressions

    pull up bring or come to a stop （使）停下

    a piece of cake（informal） sth. very easy to do