"I've come to complain of that flour you sent me," she was saying, with fire in her eye.
"What was the matter with it?" asked the grocer, meekly.
"It was tough. I made a pie with it, and it was as much as my husband could do to cut it," was what the dear young thing said in all candor.
And I suppose that grocer promised to remedy matters by sending up some "tender" flour.
While I loitered in the grocer's who should come in but Dr. Instantaneous, as gay and chipper as though he had never killed a man in his thirty years of deadly practice. He's a crank on the liquor question, and to stave him off, I said:
"Terrible thing, that case of Sweitzer, the brewer."
"The brewer—yes, I've heard his name—what happened to him?" he asked, innocently.
"Dead."