"Gad! I shall be black and
blue for a fortnight! I'm colicky now: I need a mustard-plaster!"
"_Two_ mustard-plasters," I insisted severely: "one on your tongue
and the other on your temper!"
"Temper?" flared the doctor, and flung up his arms. "_Temper?_
Here's a minx that's all but murdered me, and yet has the stark
effrontery to blather about temper! You've a bad one yourself, let
me tell you! You've the worst, outside of your late aunt--"
"Grand-aunt-in-law; your own cousin-by-blood, whom you greatly
resemble in that same matter of family temper, I am given to
understand."
"Gatchell told you that!" cried the doctor, wrathfully.
"Fish-blooded old mummy! _His_ place is in a Canopic jar! Gatchell
hasn't had a thought since 1845."
"Well, if he satisfied himself so long ago as 1845 that you have a
frightful temper and that your hens are unutterable nuisances, I see
no reason why he should change his mind," I said, frigidly. "You
have; and your hens are; and your rooster is a _demon_!"
"Straight out of the pit; undoubtedly they were hatched under
Satan's wings. Monsieur, believe me, Schmetz, when I tell you so."
"Didn't you ask me," I demanded, "to throw them over into your yard
when they invaded my premises? Very well: I threw one over and you
caught it.
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