“Mrs. Lady,” say Hon. Boss Mover, making chawtobacco, “strong men are always kindest.” With such dictation he embrace Hon. Piano with terrible Turkish elbows and knock off several legs by removing door-knob while brushing too close. Assisted by considerable Irish, Hon. Piano make crash-bang music by stumbling into Van.
“How could you treat music so carelussly?” chock Hon. Mrs. ringing her hands.
“One cannot be a Sandow and a Paderewski at same moment,” snuggest Hon. Boss Vanner while performing slides with bed furniture.
Pretty soonly all that Home was ejected outward into street. Ancestors, coal-scuttles, landscapes, dictionary, dust-pan, etc. all waltzed down stairway on top of that great muscle. When Hon. Vanner drop bureau which crack in 2 he say to Hon. Mrs. Sulkz, with chivalry expression, “I call you to witness; this goods is damaged.” And so onwards.
Pretty soonly, when that Home were completely tied down in wagons, Hon. Mrs. arise upwards from her nervus prostration and say so to me, “Togo, can your brain do some intellect?”
“I shall be entirely brilliant, if brain is not,” I promus.
“Well, if so,” she snagger, “I wish you would ride on front wagon with Chief Housebreaker and tell his brainless mind the number of new house where it should go.”
“Where shall it be?” I inquest.
“Remember this number exactly—125 North Orange Street. Can your memory assimilate it?”
“Doggishly!” I insure.