gun from tool-box.) This is the deadly weapon, and I'm the rider--
see? (Sits on a chair, with face to back, and works imaginary
pedals.) You're the dog. I'm passing the farm-yard. Bow-wow! out
you spring--grab me by the bone--I--ah--I mean the leg. Pouf! I
shoot you with ammonia. [Suits action to the word.

Bradley (starting back). Hi, hold on! Don't squirt that infernal
stuff at me! My dear boy, get a grip on yourself. I'm not really a
ki-yi, and while I don't like bicyclists, their bones are safe from
me. I won't bite you.

Mrs. Perkins. Really--I think that's a very ingenious arrangement;
don't you, Mr. Bradley?

Bradley. I do, indeed. But, as long as we're talking about it, I
must say I think what Thaddeus really needs is a motormangun, to
squirt ammonia, or even beer, into the faces of these cable-car
fellows. They're more likely to interfere with him than dogs--don't
you think?

Perkins. It's a first-rate idea, Brad. I'll suggest it to my agent.

Bradley. Your what?

Perkins (apologetically). Well, I call him my agent, although really
I've only bought this one wheel from him. He represents the Czar
Manufacturing Company.

Bradley. They make Czars, do they?