Mrs. Gimpson hesitated. It is never pleasant to submit one’s superstitions to the tests of the unbelieving, but after the attitude she had taken up she was extremely loath to allow her son-in-law a triumph.
“Never mind, we’ll say no more about it,” she said, primly, “but I ’ave my own ideas.”
“I dessay,” said Mr. Boxer; “but you’re afraid for us to go to your old fortune-teller. It would be too much of a show-up for ’im.”
“It’s no good your trying to aggravate me, John Boxer, because you can’t do it,” said Mrs. Gimpson, in a voice trembling with passion.
“O’ course, if people like being deceived they must be,” said Mr. Boxer; “we’ve all got to live, and if we’d all got our common sense fortune-tellers couldn’t. Does he tell fortunes by tea-leaves or by the colour of your eyes?”
“Laugh away, John Boxer,” said Mrs. Gimpson, icily; “but I shouldn’t have been alive now if it hadn’t ha’ been for Mr. Silver’s warnings.”
“Mother stayed in bed for the first ten days in July,” explained Mrs. Boxer, “to avoid being bit by a mad dog.”
“Tchee—tchee—tchee,” said the hapless Mr. Boxer, putting his hand over his mouth and making noble efforts to restrain himself; “tchee—tch——”
“I s’pose you’d ha’ laughed more if I ’ad been bit?” said the glaring Mrs. Gimpson.
“Well, who did the dog bite after all?” inquired Mr. Boxer, recovering.