"I don't want to be auctioned off. Men are scarce in England and a fat woman might bid me in. Even if you want to get rid of me, Babe wants me."
"Neither you nor Babe need distress yourselves. Your absence will not be prolonged. The fat woman will drop you back on the door-step as damaged goods and I can auction you off all over again. It will be an endless procedure."
Joking with me was a diversion that Mr. Saltus loved. We were always living with imaginary people concerning whom he would ask hypothetical questions. One was as follows:—
"What would you do if a fat woman came in with a bag in her hand, and tried to put me in it and take me away?"
"'Madame,' I would say, 'if you are trying to steal my little Snippsy, let me assure you, that though men may be scarce, hats are more so. A smart autumn model in exchange is my price.'"
At that Mr. Saltus would exclaim:—
"I would not go. I would scream and bite her, and she would be glad to let me drop."
"Not at all," I always replied, "for I would tell her that you have been expecting hydrophobia all these years and it has at last shown itself. Then she would carry you off to the lethal chamber with all speed."
That remark always called forth a series of "Wows" in various keys. This story with variations was gone over and over, and as a rule was followed by one from me. Mr. Saltus was disappointed when it was not.
"What would you do," I asked, "if, upon going into your study you found a giant elemental sitting at your desk tampering with your copy?"