My friend Zacharias was accustomed to sleep with a heated stone at his
feet; for the feet of Mr. Zacharias were as the feet of the dead. One
night he retired as usual, and it chanced that he awoke some hours
afterwards with a well-defined smell of burning leather, making it
pleasant for his nostrils.
“Mrs. Zacharias,” said he, nudging his snoring spouse, “I wish you
would get up and look about. I think one of the children must have
fallen into the fire.”
The lady, who from habit had her own feet stowed comfortably away
against the warm stomach of her lord and master, declined to make the
investigation demanded, and resumed the nocturnal melody. Mr. Zacharias
was angered; for the first time since she had sworn to love, honour,
and obey, this female was in open rebellion. He decided upon prompt and
vigorous action. He quietly moved over to the back side of the bed and
braced his shoulders against the wall. Drawing up his sinewy knees to a
level with his breast, he placed the soles of his feet broadly against
the back of the insurgent, with the design of propelling her against
the opposite wall. There was a strangled snort, then a shriek of female
agony, and the neighbours came in.
Mutual explanations followed, and Mr. Zacharias walked the streets of
Grass Valley next day as if he were treading upon eggs worth a dollar a
dozen.