"Certainly not. Do you think I'm accustomed to having a hot cigar dashed into my nose every morning?"
"Well, it's not altogether likely, oh, no. But judgin' by the color of ye'r nose I'd say it's been affected by somethin' more fiery than a hot ten-cent cigar."
"Ye do, eh?" The lawyer was visibly irritated now.
"I sure do. But that was an inward application, while mine was outward. It was merely a touch of Abner Andrews, of Ash Pint, an' when an' where he touches there's ginerally somethin' doin' which ain't allus pleasant to the feelin's, either."
"I hope your touch is not always as hot as the one you just applied to my nose, anyway," the lawyer replied.
"Oh, it's a dam sight hotter sometimes, let me tell ye that, 'specially when there's somethin' crooked afoot."
"What are you driving at?"
"What am I drivin' at? Why, at that Orphan Home affair. It jist twists me all to pieces when I think of Hen Whittles wantin' one thousand dollars fer that dump of his, an' him one of the richest men in Glucom, at that."
"But surely you don't expect him to give it for nothing, do you?" the lawyer queried.
"An' why not? It's worth nuthin', an' what's more, Hen Whittles should be fined fer keepin' sich a disgraceful place so near town. Every time I drive past that spot I have to hold me nose, the smell is so bad. An' sich a mess of stuff! Tin cans, dead cats an' dogs, an' every blamed thing that isn't of any use is dumped there. It'd take more'n a thousand dollars to clean it up. The Board of Health should git after Hen an' make him squirm like an angle-worm on a hook."