CINDERELLA (_at a venture_). Oho!
MRS. M. It ain’t there the pain is—it’s down my side.
CINDERELLA (_firmly_). We never say 99 down there.
MRS. M. What’s wrong wi’ me?
CINDERELLA (_candidly_). I don’t want for to pretend, Mrs. Maloney,
that the 99 is any guidance to me. I can _not_ find out what it’s
for. I would make so bold as to call your complaint muscular
rheumatics if the pain came when you coughed. But you have no cough.
MRS. M. (_coming to close quarters_). No, but he has—my old man.
It’s him that has the pains, not me.
CINDERELLA (_hurt_). What for did you pretend it was you?
MRS. M. That was his idea. He was feared you might stop his smoking.
CINDERELLA. And so I will.
MRS. M. What’s the treatment?
CINDERELLA (_writing after consideration on a piece of paper_). One
of them mustard leaves.
MRS. M. (_taking the paper_). Is there no medicine?
CINDERELLA (_faltering_). I’m a little feared about medicine, Mrs.
Maloney.
MRS. M. He’ll be a kind of low-spirited if there’s not a lick of
medicine.
CINDERELLA. Have you any in the house?
MRS. M. There’s what was left over of the powders my lodger had
when the kettle fell on his foot.
CINDERELLA. You could give him one of them when the cough is
troublesome. Good night, Mrs. Maloney.