Not for Him
A quiet and retiring citizen occupied a seat near the door of a crowded car when a masterful stout woman entered.
Having no newspaper behind which to hide he was fixed and subjugated by her glittering eye. He rose and offered his place to her. Seating herself—without thanking him—she exclaimed in tones that reached to the farthest end of the car:
“What do you want to stand up there for? Come here and sit on my lap.”
“Madam,” gasped the man, as his face became scarlet. “I beg your pardon, I—I——”
“What do you mean?” shrieked the woman. “You know very well I was speaking to my niece there behind you.”