We Never Speak Their Names. 95 



C( 



Oh, nothing to speak of! Some miscreant sloshed a 

 little poison around, but wa'n't nobody hurt, I guess. 

 Mustn't mind a little thing like that." 



You and your wife try everything. You varnish the 

 bedstead over, so as to seal up the eggs. You pour hot 

 water into all the cracks and crannies of the bedstead. 

 You soak it with kerosene. You soak it with benzine. 

 You buy new kinds of stuff with a skull-and-crossbones 

 on it. \Yaste of time and money. 



There isn't one bit of use trying to get rid of them," 

 says your wife, nearly worried out of her mind, " as long 

 as we keep those wooden beds. They're just a harbor 

 for them. I won't stand it any longer. Xow how much 

 do you suppose the second-hand man will give me for 

 them?" 



You don't know : you think not less than so much. 

 That is before you try to interest him in the undoubted 

 bargain you have up at your house, if he will only come 

 and have a look. Your wife shows you the department- 

 store advertisements in the Sunday paper, and you tell her 

 to go ahead and buy the enameled bedsteads, and you'll 

 stop in at some second-hand stores on your way to the 

 office. 



It is a sad story this, about the second-hand dealers. 

 Myself, I think they are a greedy and a grasping lot. 

 But a whole book would hardly do justice to them and 

 their ways, and I must hurry on. The upshot of it is 

 that you are ready to weep tears of joy on the collar of 

 anybody that will come and take the wooden beds out 

 and away. Anything to get rid of them. 



' Now," says your wife, after the new beds are set up, 



' now we'll have some peace and comfort, I hope. Don't 



they look nice ? I ought to have got new mattresses, I 



suppose, but the iron beds they advertise for $3.98 I 



