"I just had Mr. Groom come over to fix the latch on my closet-door. I dunno what was wrong with it—when I shut it tight it went off like a gun in the middle of the night. Mr. Groom fixed it in just a minute."
"Oh, he did," says she, about like that.
"He's awful handy with tools," I says. And she didn't say anything. And then says I:
"Mrs. Bride, we're old friends by now, ain't we?"
"Why, yes," says she, "and good friends, I hope."
"That's what I hope," I says. "And now," I went on, "I hope you won't think I'm interfering too much, but I want to speak to you serious about your husband."
"My husband?" says she, short.
I went on, never noticing. "I don't know whether you've took it in, but there seems to be something wrong with him."
"What do you mean?" she says, looking at me.
"Well, sir," I says, "I ain't sure. I can't tell just how wrong it is. But something is ailing him."