d, and, puffing out her lips, blew an immense volume of
smoke. "Halloa!" she said, carelessly.

"Wot--wot does this mean?" demanded her husband.

Mrs. Porter smiled with conscious pride. "I made it come out of my nose
just now," she replied. "At least, some of it did, and I swallowed the
rest. Will it hurt me?"

"Where's my breakfast?" inquired the other, hotly. "Why ain't the
kitchen-fire alight? Wot do you think you're doing of?"

"I'm not doing anything," said his wife, with an aggrieved air. "I'm on
strike."

Mr. Porter reeled against the door-post. "Wot!" he stammered. "On
strike? Nonsense! You can't be."

"O, yes, I can," retorted Mrs. Porter, closing one eye and ministering to
it hastily with the corner of her apron. "Not 'aving no Bert Robinson to
do it for me, I made a little speech all to myself, and here I am."

She dropped her apron, replaced the cigarette, and, with her hands on her
plump knees, eyes him steadily.

"But--but this ain't a factory," objected the dismayed man; "and, besides
--I won't 'ave it!"

Mrs. Porter laughed--a fat, comfortable laugh, but with a touch of
hardness in it.

"All right, mate," she said, comfortably. "What are you out on strike
for?"

"Shorter hours and more money," said Mr. Porter, glaring at her.

His wife nodded. "So am I," she said. "I wonder who gets it first?"

She smiled agreeably at the bewildered Mr. Porter, and, extracting a
paper packet of cigarettes from her pocket, lit a fresh one at the stub
of the first.

"That's the worst of a woman," said her husband, avoiding her eye and
addressing a sanitary dustbin of severe aspect; "they do things without
thinking first. That's why men are superior; before they do a thing they
look at it all round, and upside down, and--and--make sure it can be
done. Now, you get up in a temper this morning, and the first thing you
do--not even waiting to get my breakfast ready first--is to go on strike.
If you'd thought for two minutes you'd see as 'ow it's impossible for you
to go on strike for more than a couple of hours or so."

"Why?" inquired Mrs. Porter.

"Kids," replied her husband, triumphantly. "They'll be coming 'ome from
school soon, won't they? And they'll be wanting their dinner, won't
they?"

"That's all right," murmured the other, vaguely.

"After which, when night comes," pursued Mr. Porter, "they'll 'ave to be
put to bed. In the morning they'll 'ave to be got up and washed and