The old man threw up his hands.
"I dakes not dot Repecca back. Ven a man comes to my house, picks out himself a piece of goots, and dot goots vas received by him in goot order, I vould be a fool to dake pack dot goods. No, sir, you schoost keep dot Repecca."
My brother Tom was hit on the head some time ago, and at the hospital they said they would have to amputate half his brain. I didn't want them to, because he is absent-minded anyway.
"We'll have to give him something to make him sleep," said one of the surgeons.
"That won't be necessary," said another; "he's a policeman."
That made Tom sore, and he snapped: "I've got half a mind to cave in your ribs for you."
"You won't feel that way in a minute," said the surgeon, "because that's the half of your mind we're going to cut out."
It was a great operation. When I told my wife of the surgeon's little joke and how Tom came back at him she said she never knew a time when Tom wasn't ready to give anybody a piece of his mind.