ten
dollair of glass!" He tore his pomaded hair; he tore off his bib and his
neck-tie, and for three minutes without cessation he shrieked wildly and
unintelligibly. It was possible to make out, however, that "arteest" and
"ten dollair" were the themes of the improvisation. Finally he sank
exhausted into the chair, and his white-faced wife rushed to his side.

"Louise!" she cried, "get the foot-tub out of the closet while I spray
his throat, or he can't sing a note. Fill it up with warm water--102
degrees--there's the thermometer--and bathe his feet."

Trembling from head to foot, Louise obeyed her orders, and brought the
foot-tub, full of steaming water. Then she knelt down and began to serve
the maestro for the first time. She took off his shoes. Then she looked
at his socks. Could she do it?

"Eediot!" gasped the sufferer, "make haste! I die!"

"Hold your mouth open, dear," said Madame, "I haven't half sprayed you."

"Ah! _you!_" cried the tenor. "Cat! Devil! It ees you zat have killed
me!" And moved by an access of blind rage, he extended his arm, and
thrust his wife violently from him.

Louise rose to her feet, with a hard set, good old New England look on
her face. She lifted the tub of water to the level of her breast, and
then she inverted it on the tenor's head. For one instant she gazed at
the deluge, and at the bath-tub balanced on the maestro's skull like a
helmet several sizes too large--then she fled like the wind.

Once in the servant's quarters, she snatched her hat and jacket. From
below came mad yells of rage.

"I kill hare! give me my knife--give me my rivvolvare! Au secours!
Assassin!"

Miss Slattery appeared in the doorway, still polishing her nails.

"What have you done to His Tonsils?" she inquired. "He's pretty hot,
this trip."

"How can I get away from here?" cried Louise.

Miss Slattery pointed to a small door. Louise rushed down a long
stairway--another--and yet others--through a great room where there was
a smell of cooking and a noise of fires--past white-capped cooks and
scullions--through a long stone corridor, and out into the street. She
cried aloud as she saw Esther's face at the window of the coupe.

She drove home--cured.

FOOTNOTE:

[1] From "Stories of H. C. Bunner," copyright, 1890, 1896, by Alice L.
Bunner; published by Charles Scribner's Sons. By permission of the
publishers.

H. C. BUNNER

Henry Cuyler Bunner was his full name, H. C. Bunner was the