"There are proofs, Mrs. Mole," he would say, "that Isaac Mole never shunned the foe in his life."
"Yah, yah!" his spouse would gracefully smile in reply, "dat no fault ob yours, Ikey Mole; de ignorant critters took off your legs because you so often lost your legs before."
"Lost them before?"
"Yes."
"Before they were amputated, do you mean?"
"Yes."
"Why, Mrs. Mole," and he would draw himself up to his full height, "you have been surely indulging in strong waters."
"No, sar; no, Ikey Mole, not dis gal, sar. You lose your legs continual and your head too, sar, with strong waters—sperrits, sar, sperrits."
Poor Mole, he was no match for her, and could only turn for consolation to where he had ever thought to drown dull care.
The bottle.