“Stop it! You’re tickling me. I can’t stand tickling!” he cried. “I—I can’t stand lots of things. I’m—I’m the most sensitive man in the world. I—I can’t stand cold water at all.”
“Well, nobody is cold-watering you,” said Philo Gubb. “Handcuffs ain’t cold water.”
“But cold water is,” said Mr. Witzel. “Cold water kills me! It makes me shiver, and turn blue, and goose-fleshy, and gives me cramps in the palms of my hands and the soles of my feet. I—listen: my doctor says cold baths will kill me. The shock of ’em. Bad heart, you understand.”
Philo Gubb’s eyes blinked.
“I’ll tell you,” said Mr. Witzel, grasping Mr. Gubb’s hand. “I can’t stand cold baths. They’d kill me, you understand. It would be suicide! So—so I knew Billy Gribble. Didn’t I set him up in business here, to get rid of him? Don’t he owe me a good turn?”
“Does he?” asked Philo Gubb.
“Hasn’t he two bathrooms in connection with his laundry. ‘Hot and Cold Baths, All hours. Ladies Tuesdays and Wednesdays Only?’” asked Mr. Witzel. “Mr. Gubb, I will be frank. I am Custer Master!”
THE MISSING MR. MASTER