Rip, went another packet of Scraped Nutshells for Scraggy Nonentities, and whizz went its contents.
"I'm teaching you a lesson, madam!" he roared. "Teaching you to obey my instructions not to deal at this store?"
"Why, Henry," said the lady, "they don't belong to us at all. Mrs Jenkins, next door, has gone away for the day, and I promised to take them in for her."
And Babcock had to subdue his spleen, allow his wife to hie away to the hated department store and duplicate the whole Jenkins' order.
He is also a singular man, in that he will not allow himself the pleasure of a good cigar.
Some men would make good Mohammedans, for they always seem trying to deny themselves the good things of life—a sort of crawling to Mecca on their knees.
Why, what do you think, while Babcock and myself were sauntering through Central Park recently, up runs a smart little urchin, and sings out: