“BOB.”
How an Old Man “Come Home.”
A Story Without a Moral, Picked Out of a Busy Life.
[WRITTEN FOR THE SUNDAY GAZETTE.]
“YOU are the no-countest, laziest, meanest dog that ever wore breeches! Never let me see you again!”
Thus Mrs. Tag to Mr. Tag, her husband; she standing in the door, her arms akimbo, and, cat-like, spitting the words at him.
Mr. Tag made no reply. He did not even put up his hands in evasion. He stood dazed and bewildered, as one who hesitates in a sudden shower, and then turning, pulled his old hat down over his shoulders, as if she was throwing rocks at him instead of words, and shambled off in silence, quickening his retreat by a pitiful little jerk, every time she launched a new volley at him.
This she did as often as her brains could forge them and her tongue send them. She stood there, the very picture of fury. And at length, with disgust on every feature, she turned, sprawled a weevilly little child that was clinging to her skirts, and went into the house.