“You—you’ll go to jail for this,” cried Mrs. Gimpson, breathlessly. “What is your first wife’s address?”
“I decline to answer that question,” said her son-in-law.
“What is your first wife’s address?” repeated Mrs. Gimpson.
“Ask the fortune-teller,” said Mr. Boxer, with an aggravating smile. “And then get ’im up in the box as a witness, little bowl and all. He can tell you more than I can.”
“I demand to know her name and address,” cried Mrs. Gimpson, putting a bony arm around the waist of the trembling Mrs. Boxer.
“I decline to give it,” said Mr. Boxer, with great relish. “It ain’t likely I’m going to give myself away like that; besides, it’s agin the law for a man to criminate himself. You go on and start your bigamy case, and call old red-eyes as a witness.”
Mrs. Gimpson gazed at him in speechless wrath and then stooping down conversed in excited whispers with Mrs. Thompson. Mrs. Boxer crossed over to her husband.
“Oh, John,” she wailed, “say it isn’t true, say it isn’t true.”
Mr. Boxer hesitated. “What’s the good o’ me saying anything?” he said, doggedly.
“It isn’t true,” persisted his wife. “Say it isn’t true.”