Not that it matters much anyhow, for I understand they will soon move out of our neighborhood.
My wife says the signs are infallible, since they have begun to scratch matches on the walls.
By some accident I dropped into a strange barber shop to be shaved.
And it was the most—well, atrocious skin I ever ran up against.
The tears stood in my eyes, but that barbarian kept scratching away just as though he had taken a vow not to leave an inch of cuticle on my chin.
When the agony became unbearable, I said, humbly:
"I beg pardon, but I believe there's a hack in your razor."
"Well," said he, coldly, "what did you expect to find in it—an automobile?"