papers. The inblowing air was sweet and mild. Sparrows wrangled happily everywhere outdoors. Never trust May.
Mr. Coulson twisted the ends of his white mustache, cursed his foot, and pounded a bell on the table by his side.
In came Mrs. Widdup. She was comely to the eye, fair, flustered, forty and foxy.
“Higgins is out, sir,” she said, with a smile suggestive of vibratory massage. “He went to post a letter. Can I do anything for you, sir?”
“It’s time for my aconite,” said old Mr. Coulson. “Drop it for me. The bottle’s there. Three drops. In water. D— that is, confound Higgins! There’s nobody in this house cares if I die here in this chair for want of attention.”
Mrs. Widdup sighed deeply.
“Don’t be saying that, sir,” she said. “There’s them that would care more than any one knows. Thirteen drops, you said, sir?”
“Three,” said old man Coulson.
He took his dose and then Mrs. Widdup’s hand. She blushed. Oh, yes, it can be done. Just hold your breath and compress the diaphragm.
“Mrs. Widdup,” said Mr. Coulson, “the springtime’s full upon us.”
“Ain’t that right?” said Mrs. Widdup. “The air’s real warm. And there’s bock-beer signs on every corner.
