“—— these servants!” he exclaimed; “I’ll kick every one of them through the front window! Look at that roast!”
The doors being now open, a perfect storm of ugly, evil tempers poured forth.
At such times as these it was the custom of wife number one to shiver, shrink, implore—weep, then take the offending roast from the room, and replace it by something else which most likely was hurled at her, in the end.
The present Mrs. Daemon neither shivered nor shrank. She knew what to expect when she married this man, and she was ready. The guns were loaded and aimed, and they went off, and presto! the enemy lay dead on the dining room floor.
Instead of a roast beef solo, there was a duet, Mrs. Daemon’s feminine soprano rising above her husband’s masculine roar. She agreed with what he said as to the disposition of the servants, only adding that she intended to hang them all, before he put them through the front window.
“To insult us during our honeymoon with such a roast,” she cried; “and look at this gravy! It’s even worse!”
And with one swift stroke of her hand she sent the gravy bowl flying from off the table on to the handsome carpet.
“In Heaven’s name, what are you about?” he bawled.
“Do you suppose I’d offer you such gravy; it ought to be flung in their faces.”
He gasped and stammered; thought of the recent wedding and regretted it; but he was married now, and to an awful shrew!