“They brought a petition around here to-day for us to sign. It seems there is some talk of flooring the reservoir and using it as a beer garden this coming summer, and the neighborhood has been called upon to protest against it.”
“I know all about that,” he growled.
“Have you signed it?”
“I have.”
Again silence fell as a wet cloak upon them, and the little woman sat there racking her brains, almost depleted by this time, for the atmosphere which such a man as that creates is warranted to dry up all the intellectual juices.
One more despairing effort. The children had now left the table, so anecdotes of them were in order. Probably the poor little wife thought that this man could be wakened into attention by a story about one of his children.
“Mamie asked me where cats went to when they died. ‘They don’t go anywhere,’ I said; ‘when they die, that’s the end of them.’
“‘Do they turn to dust?’ she asked.
“‘Yes, just turn to dust,’ I said.
“‘Why, then,’ she exclaimed, and her eyes grew as big as saucers, ‘when horses run ’long the streets, are they kicking up cats?’”