Then she let the cat out of the bag.
Several times of late after Cribber had been to the races he looked careworn and cross, and complained that there was something radically wrong with his system.
I saw a great light.
But I made no attempt to explain matters to the little woman, who doubtless continues to be worried about the health of that gay old deceiver, Cribber, and when I told him about it he bribed me to secrecy with a prize fifty-cent cigar.
To tell you the truth, if there's anything I enjoy it's a prime cigar.
And like many another man I've had to make myself a martyr each Christmas, for my better-half invariably insists on buying me a box of the weeds.
Her intentions are all right, but the cigars—well, they generally bring back vivid recollections of boyhood days, when corn-silk and grape leaves all went.
I have come to dread the holiday time.