A RETURN 237 



that my wife and I would step down and out for 

 the first female harpy that managed to get her 

 veteran claws through his donkey's hide, why, 

 Dick would have a chance to learn something 

 come Thursday evening at about six. 



No, he should not come home, danged if he 

 should ! I would write him at once. " Here ! Miss 

 Blank!" I yelled so loudly to my stenographer 

 that, for the first time in her office-life perhaps, 

 she came into my room without running her hand 

 through her fluffy foretop or settling her belt. 

 "Take this down at once! No, I '11 write it my- 

 self." Where shall I address the idiot ? Just like 

 him ; no address given, letter posted in Boston. 

 On his honeymoon in Boston, with my two hun- 

 dred and fifty dollars. Well, he would find mighty 

 little honeymoon after he got home with his 

 superannuated old helpmeet. And I broke into 

 such hearty maledictions that the stenographer 

 tiptoed to her door and softly closed it. 



Then I went home with my letter and read it 

 to my wife. She had recourse to tears, then re- 

 proaches, then hysterics. I thought I had carried 

 on badly enough, but she showed me a few new 

 things in that line. It was I who was to blame. 

 It was I who had allowed him too much liberty. 

 It was I who had sent him to that horrid summer 

 resort, and had furnished him with money to 

 spend on horrid old false-fronted widows. And 



