A man comes out of the tent, and she hands it to him. He reads it, and his mouth drops open, and a pipe he is smoking falls on to the grass.
“Jim,” says the lady, “someone is making love to your wife!”
Jim, he reads the letter again, and then he laughs. He laughs so hard he bends double, and catches the back of the lady's chair. And she laughs of a sudden and puts her hand in front of her face and laughs again. And then Jim, he says to Freckles, who has been getting redder and redder:
“And who is Mr. H. Watson?”
“Don't you get it?” says the lady, taking off her glasses to wipe them, and pointing to Freckles. “This is the boy that owns the dog that played the bloodhound last night, and he is Mr. H. Watson!”
And when she took off her glasses like that, we all saw she was the Little Eva of that show!
“Mr. H. Watson,” says Jim to Freckles, “did you intend matrimony, or were you trying to flirt?”
“Quit your kidding him, Jim,” says Little Eva, still laughing. “Can't you see he's hacked nearly to death?”
“None of your business what I intended!” yells Freckles to Jim. And he picks up a clod of dirt and nearly hits Jim with it, and runs. And we all run. But when we had run half a block, we looked back, and nobody was following us. Jim and Little Eva had busted out laughing again, and was laughing so hard they was hanging on to each other to keep from falling down.
“Good-bye, Mr. H. Watson,” yells Jim. “Is it really your own blood?”