The burglar looked down at his pistol and thrust it into his pocket with an awkward attempt at ease.
“Say, old man,” he said, constrainedly, “ever try opodeldoc?”
“Slop!” said the citizen angrily. “Might as well rub on restaurant butter.”
“Sure,” concurred the burglar. “It’s a salve suitable for little Minnie when the kitty scratches her finger. I’ll tell you what! We’re up against it. I only find one thing that eases her up. Hey? Little old sanitary, ameliorating, lest-we-forget Booze. Say—this job’s off—’scuse me—get on your clothes and let’s go out and have some. ’Scuse the liberty, but—ouch! There she goes again!”
“For a week,” said the citizen. “I haven’t been able to dress myself without help. I’m afraid Thomas is in bed, and—”
“Climb out,” said the burglar, “I’ll help you get into your duds.”
The conventional returned as a tidal wave and flooded the citizen. He stroked his brown-and-gray beard.
“It’s very unusual—” he began.
“Here’s your shirt,” said the burglar, “fall out. I knew a man who said Omberry’s Ointment fixed him in two weeks so he could use both hands in tying his four-in-hand.”
As they were going out the door the citizen turned and started back.