“Do look at the chimney,” she began; “can’t you see that something must be in it?”
“Yes, wife. Truly there is smoke in the chimney, as in Mr. Scribe’s note.”
“Smoke? Yes, indeed, and in my eyes, too. How you two wicked old sinners do smoke!—this wicked old chimney and you.”
“Wife,” said I, “I and my chimney like to have a quiet smoke together, it is true, but we don’t like to be called names.”
“Now, dear old man,” said she, softening down, and a little shifting the subject, “when you think of that old kinsman of yours, you know there must be a secret closet in this chimney.”
“Secret ash-hole, wife, why don’t you have it? Yes, I dare say there is a secret ash-hole in the chimney; for where do all the ashes go to that drop down the queer hole yonder?”
“I know where they go to; I’ve been there almost as many times as the cat.”
“What devil, wife, prompted you to crawl into the ash-hole? Don’t you know that St. Dunstan’s devil emerged from the ash-hole? You will get your death one of these days, exploring all about as you do. But supposing there be a secret closet, what then?”
“What then? why what should be in a secret closet but—”
“Dry bones, wife,” broke in I with a puff, while the sociable old chimney broke in with another.