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 in the intensity of the silence it seemed to be measuring.
“Jane, _what’s_ off!” “Why, your boots, to be sure,” replied the
petulant woman, losing patience; “I pulled them off when you first lay
down.”
Again the prostrate gentleman was still. Then when the candle of the
waking housewife had burned low down to the socket, and the wasted
flame on the hearth was expiring bluely in convulsive leaps, the head
of the family resumed: “Jane, who said anything about boots?”
There was no reply. Apparently none was expected, for the man
immediately rose, lengthened himself out like a telescope, and
continued: “Jane, I must have smothered that brat, and I’m ’fernal
sorry!”
“What brat?” asked the wife, becoming interested.
“Why, ours—our little Isaac. I saw you put ’im in bed last week, and
I’ve been layin’ right onto ’im!”
“What under the sun _do_ you mean?” asked the good wife; “we haven’t
any brat, and never had, and his name should not be Isaac if we had. I
believe you are crazy.”
The man balanced his bulk rather unsteadily, looked hard into the eyes
of his companion, and triumphantly emitted the following conundrum:
“Jane, look-a-here! If we haven’t any brat, what’n thunder’s the use o’
bein’ married!”
Pending the solution of the momentous problem, its author went out and
searched the night for a whisky-skin.