The Mistake of a Life.
The hotel was in flames. Mr. Pokeweed was
promptly on hand, and tore madly into the burning
pile, whence he soon emerged with a nude female.
Depositing her tenderly upon a pile of hot bricks, he
mopped his steaming front with his warm coat-tail.
“Now, Mrs. Pokeweed,” said he, “where will I
be most likely to find the children? They will
naturally wish to get out.”
The lady assumed a stiffly vertical attitude,
and with freezing dignity replied in the words
following:
“Sir, you have saved my life; I presume you
are entitled to my thanks. If you are likewise
solicitous regarding the fate of the person you
have mentioned, you had better go back and
prospect round till you find her; she would probably
be delighted to see you. But while I have
a character to maintain unsullied, you shall not
stand there and call me Mrs. Pokeweed!”
Just then the front wall toppled outward, and
Pokeweed cleared the street at a single bound.
He never learned what became of the strange lady,
and to the day of his death he professed an indifference
that was simply brutal.
