The Fiend's Delight
A short, sharp curve in the middle of that iron fire-poker is eloquent of a wrong redressed. Little Isaac.
Mr. Gobwottle came home from a meeting of the Temperance Legion extremely drunk. He went to the bed, piled himself loosely atop of it and forgot his identity. About the middle of the night, his wife, who was sitting up darning stockings, heard a voice from the profoundest depths of the bolster: "Say, Jane?"
Jane gave a vicious stab with the needle, impaling one of her fingers, and continued her work. There was a long silence, faintly punctuated by the bark of a distant dog. Again that voice--"Say-Jane!"
The lady laid aside her work and wearily, replied: "Isaac, do go to sleep; they are off."
Another and longer pause, during which the ticking of the clock became painful