A SERIOUS QUESTION.
Old Roger came down stairs, one Sunday morning,
with a face unusually animated, and stood, with his
hands behind his back, playing nervously with the tails
of his coat. The breakfast was waiting for him, the fishballs
were getting cold, the coffee was evaporating; but
he did n't seem to care. He leaned over the back of the
landlady's chair, and asked her, in a whisper, if she
could tell him why a dyspeptic was out of immediate
danger when his disease was most distressing. She
looked earnestly at the top of the teapot a few moments,
and then said that for the life of her she could n't tell.
A curiosity was evinced by the boarders, and they asked
what it was. They all gave it up, too. “Why,” said
he, looking very red, “it is because he can't di-gest
then.” Drawing his chin within his stock, the old fellow
laughed lustily, and in his paroxysm threw his arms
around the landlady's neck for support; but she threw
them off very indignantly, for the boarders were all looking
at her. He then sat down to breakfast with a good
appetite.
