of a man in jail without putting a ball and chain on him or a
summer resort could get along without a Lover's Leap within easy
walking distance of the hotel. It simply isn't done, that's all.

Well, as I was saying, she gets out her tool kit and goes to work
on you. You didn't dream that there were so many things--mainly
of a painful nature--that could be done to a single finger nail and
you flinch as you suddenly remember that you have ten of them in
all, counting thumbs in with fingers. She takes a finger nail in
hand and she files it and she trims it and she softens it with hot
water and hardens it with chemicals and parboils it a little while
and then she cuts off the hang nails--if there aren't any hang
nails there already she'll make a few--and she shears away enough
extra cuticle to cover quite a good-sized little boy. She goes
over you with a bristle brush, and warms up your nerve ends until
you tingle clear back to your dorsal fin and then she takes one
of those orange wood stobbers previously referred to, and goes on
an exploring expedition down under the nail, looking for the quick.
She always finds it. There is no record of a failure to find the
quick. Having found it she proceeds to wake it up and teach it
some parlor tricks. I may not have set forth all these various
details in the exact order in which they take place, but I know
she does them all. And somewhere along about the time when she
is half way through with the first hand she makes you put the
other hand in the suds.

Later on when you have had more practice at this thing you learn
to wait for the signal before plunging the second hand into the
suds, but being green on this occasion, you are apt to mistake
the moving of the crock of suds over from the right hand side to