Mr. Icky: Worse, thank God!...(Gloomily.) I’m a hundred years old... I’m getting brittle.
Peter: I suppose life has been pretty tame since you gave up petty arson.
Mr. Icky: Yes... yes.... You see, Peter, laddie, when I was fifty I reformed once—in prison.
Peter: You went wrong again?
Mr. Icky: Worse than that. The week before my term expired they insisted on transferring to me the glands of a healthy young prisoner they were executing.
Peter: And it renovated you?
Mr. Icky: Renovated me! It put the Old Nick back into me! This young criminal was evidently a suburban burglar and a kleptomaniac. What was a little playful arson in comparison!
Peter: (Awed) How ghastly! Science is the bunk.
Mr. Icky: (Sighing) I got him pretty well subdued now. ’Tisn’t every one who has to tire out two sets o’ glands in his lifetime. I wouldn’t take another set for all the animal spirits in an orphan asylum.
Peter: (Considering) I shouldn’t think you’d object to a nice quiet old clergyman’s set.