"This here boy's arter larnin'," he announced. "What's yer bill o' fare?"
"Our curriculum, sir," corrected the school-master, "embraces geography, arithmetic, trigonometry—"
"That'll do," interrupted the father. "That'll do. Load him up well with triggernometry. He's the only poor shot in the family."
A REVISED CLASSIC
"Now, my dear girl," said Bluebeard, "remember you can go anywhere in the house but the pantry. That is locked up, and the key will be placed under the mat. Remove it at your peril."
Consumed with curiosity, Mrs. Bluebeard could scarcely wait until her husband had cranked his machine before she was trying the key. It fitted perfectly. She turned it, and entered. Within was the finest collection of provisions that she had ever seen: at least a hundred dozen eggs preserved in water, sacks of potatoes, barrels of wheat—in fact, a complete commissary department.
And then, as she looked out of the window, she gave a faint scream. Her husband was returning. He had a puncture. She retained her presence of mind, however, long enough to step to the telephone. Just as she had finished delivering the message Bluebeard entered.
"Ha!" he exclaimed. "So you have forced the pantry. I see flour on your lips. Prepare to die."
Mrs. Bluebeard only smiled.
"Not so fast," she muttered. At this moment Herbert Hoover entered the house.