"Under which shelf, Bezonian?"
Mr. Summersox rarely paraphrased Shakespeare except under the stress of deep emotion.
"Under the bottom shelf."
There was some stumbling, a gratified grunt as the matches were found, and after a pause a sharp exclamation of pain. Mrs. Summersox didn't need to be told what had happened. In spite of all her protests he would insist on lighting matches on his trousers, and now he had forgotten that all he had on was a thin pair of pyjamas. She stuffed a corner of the blanket in her mouth and began to take an interest in life.
"Did you light this fire last night?" came from the icy kitchen.
"Indeed, I did not," was the reply from the cosy depths of the blankets. The cheerfulness of her tone was not lost on Mr. Summersox.
"Well, it is burned out," he bawled.
"Hadn't you better come back and put on your clothes?" she asked in a choking voice. "Probably there was a live coal in the ashes and it started the fire after we went to bed. Do be sensible and come and put on your clothes."
If the world was one vast storehouse of fur-lined overcoats Mr. Summersox wouldn't have put on another stitch after realising that she was laughing at him. No, by thunder. He would show her. Disdaining to make any reply to her chirpy explanation of the calamity, he went down cellar for more kindling. For a couple of minutes he made a noise like a railroad wreck, and as he returned to the kitchen he was whimpering to himself:
"You needn't tell me! I don't believe C-Cook or P-Peary ever went to the P-Pole. B-r-r-r!"