“Now!” said Will’s father, loud. The Witch flinched. “Now, this is a fine cigar!” yelled Will’s father, turning with great pomp back to the counter. “Quiet . . .” said the Illustrated Man. The boys looked up. “Now—” The Witch sniffed the wind. “Got to light it again!” Mr. Halloway stuck the cigar in the eternal blue flame. “Silence . . .” suggested Mr. Dark. “Ever smoke, yourself?” asked Dad. The Witch, from the concussion of his fiercely erupted and overly jovial words, dropped one wounded hand to her side, wiped sweat from it, as one wipes an antenna for better reception, and drifted it up
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Ya. Something is up with Will’s father.
