I looked forward to a summer without pennyroyal on the mantelpiece or witch hazel on the shin bone, and was content.
But one night in the early summer I got all that was coming to me and I got it good.
In the middle of the night I thought I heard voices in the room and I sat up in bed.
"I wonder if it's second-story men," I whispered to myself, because my wife was away at the seashore.
She had gone off to the shimmering sands and left me chained to the post of duty, and I tell you, boys, it's an awful thing when your wife quits you that way and you have to drag the post of duty all over town in order to find a cool place.
Wives may rush away to the summer resorts where all is gayety, and where every guess they make at the bill of fare means a set-back in the bank account; but the husbands must labor on through the scorching days and in the evenings climb the weary steps to the roof gardens.
"Ping-ding-a-zing-a-boom!" exclaimed the voices on the other side of the bed.
"If they are after my diamonds," I moaned, "they will lose money," and then I reached under the pillow for the revolver I never owned.
"Ping-ding-a-zing-a-boom!" went the conversation on the other side of the bed.
"There is something doing here," I remarked to myself, while I wished for daylight with both hands.