I was on the pickle boat for sure.
Sailing! sailing! over the griddle, me!
Scientists tell us that when a man is drowning every detail of his
lifetime passes before him in the fraction of a second.
Well, that moving picture gag was worked on me, without the aid of
a bathing suit.
When I awoke, Clara J. was saying, "Possibly it would look better
if I went with you. Wait just a moment, till I get this apron
off--there! come along!"
I arose, and with delightful unanimity the chair arose also,
clinging like a passionate porusplaster to my pantaloons.
"Mercy'" exclaimed Clara J., "that little villain, Tacks, has been
making molasses candy!"
"It strikes me," I said, trying hard to be calm, "that after making
the candy he decided to make a monkey of me. Darn the blame thing,
it won't let go! I suppose I've got to be a perpetual furniture
mover the rest of my life!"
Just then Uncle Peter came bubbling into the kitchen, talking in
short explosions like a bottle of vichy, and I collaborated with
the chair in a hasty squatty-vous!
"Two women on the piazza," he fizzed; "been talking to them an hour
and all I could get out of them was 'yes' and 'no.' Not bad
looking, but profoundly dumb."
"Hush!" said Clara J., glancing uneasily at me and then back at
Uncle Peter, as she raised a warning finger to her lips.
"Oh, they can't hear me," the old gentleman went on; "John, you
better go out and see them.
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