“How was I to know?”
“Know what?”
“I couldn’t tell.”
“Tell which?”
“I never had a notion he would act like that.”
“Who would like what?”
“Hash.”
“You’ve spoiled the hash?” said Mr. Braddock, still out of his depth.
“My Hash—Clarence. He took it the wrong way.”
At last Mr. Braddock began to see daylight. She had cooked hash for this Clarence, whoever he might be, and he had swallowed it in so erratic a manner that it had choked him.