I handed this letter to my wife. After she had read it her face grew
extremely long, and there were tears in her eyes.
“The mean old thing!” she exclaimed indignantly. “I’m sure your pieces
are just as good as they ever were. And it doesn’t take you half as
long to write them as it did.” And then, I suppose, Louisa thought of
the checks that would cease coming. “Oh, John,” she wailed, “what will
you do now?”
For an answer I got up and began to do a polka step around the supper
table. I am sure Louisa thought the trouble had driven me mad; and I
think the children hoped it had, for they tore after me, yelling with
glee and emulating my steps. I was now something like their old
playmate as of yore.
“The theatre for us to-night!” I shouted; “nothing less. And a late,
wild, disreputable supper for all of us at the Palace Restaurant.
Lumpty-diddle-de-dee-de-dum!”
And then I explained my glee by declaring that I was now a partner in a
prosperous undertaking establishment, and that written jokes might go
hide their heads in sackcloth and ashes for all me.
With the editor’s letter in her hand to justify the deed I had done, my
wife could advance no objections save a few mild ones based on the
feminine inability to appreciate a good thing such as the little back
room of Peter Hef—no, of Heffelbower & Co’s. undertaking establishment.
In conclusion, I will say that to-day you will find no man in our town
as well liked, as jovial, and full of merry sayings as I. My jokes are
again noised about and quoted; once more I take pleasure in my wife’s
confidential chatter without a mercenary thought, while Guy and Viola
play at my feet distributing gems of childish humor without fear of the
ghastly tormentor who used to dog their steps, notebook in hand.
Our business has prospered finely. I keep the books and look after the
shop, while Peter attends to outside matters. He says that my levity
and high spirits would simply turn any funeral into a regular Irish
wake.