Mrs. F.—Stet.
Mrs. W.—By the way, didn’t I hear that your little Junior met with an accident?
Mrs. F.—Yes. The little oaf fell from an apse and fractured his artus.
Mrs. W.—Egad!
Mrs. F.—And to make matters worse Dr. Bloop botched it so that we had to trek into town to a specialist. How Dr. Bloop makes his sal is a rebus to me.
Mrs. W.—The zany.
Mrs. F.—Joe’s ire was so aroused that he told Dr. Bloop [[7]]right to his visage that he was a dolt and an ort. Is your offspring well?
Mrs. W.—Not entirely. He was abed yester with a severe megrim, dark arcs neath his orbs and as pale as talc.
Mrs. F.—Renal?
Mrs. W.—That is moot. You see, Dicky is so active.