Condiment, mum, I don't know how you can look me
in the face!" said Old Hurricane, savagely. A very unnecessary
reproach, since poor Mrs. Condiment had not ventured to look any one
in the face since the discovery of the fraud of which she, as well
as others, had been an innocent victim.
"Come, come, my dear major, there is no harm done to you or your
family; therefore, take patience!" said Mr. Goodwin.
"Demmy, sir, I beg you pardon, parson, I won't take patience! You
don't know! Hang it, man, at last they got me to give up one-half of
my own blessed bed to his precious reverence--the best half which
the fellow always took right out of the middle, leaving me to sleep
on both sides of him, if I could! Think of it--me, Ira Warfield--
sleeping between the sheets--night after night--with Black Donald!
Ugh! ugh! ugh! Oh, for some lethean draught that I might drink and
forget! Sir, I won't be patient! Patience would be a sin! Mrs.
Condiment, mum, I desire that you will send in your account and
supply yourself with a new situation! You and I cannot agree any
longer. You'll be putting me to bed with Beelzebub next!" exclaimed
Old Hurricane, besides himself with indignation.
Mrs. Condiment sighed and wiped her eyes under her spectacles.
The worthy minister, now seriously alarmed, came to him and said:
"My dear, dear major, do not be unjust--consider.
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