It was a nippy, frosty night, and Mr. Pottle, after much chattering of teeth, had succeeded in getting a place warm in the family bed, and was floating peacefully into a dream in which he got a contract for ten carload lots of Pottle's Edible Shaving Cream. "Just Lather, Shave and Lick. That's All," when his wife's soft knuckles prodded him in the ribs.
"Ambrose, Ambrose, do wake up. Do you hear that?"
He sleepily opened a protesting eye. He heard faint, plaintive, peeping sounds somewhere in the house.
"It's that wretched hound," he said crossly.
"Pershing is not a hound, Ambrose Pottle."
"Oh, all right, Blossom, ALL RIGHT. It's that noble creature, G'night."
But the knuckles tattooed on his drowsy ribs again.
No response.