"It's that bloomin' Dutchman, Langbein, acrost the hall. Every time he
goes on a toot, he comes back an' wallops his wife for it. Go to bed,
Miss Claire, child, an' don't let it worry you. It ain't _your_
funeral."

Came the voice of big Sam Slawson from within his chamber:

"Just what I say to _you_, my dear. It ain't your funeral. Come back,
Martha, an' go to bed."

"Well, that's another pair o' shoes, entirely, Sammy," whispered Martha.
"This business has been goin' on long enough, an' I ain't proposin' to
put up with it no longer. Such a state o' things has nothin' to
recommend it. If it'd help such a poor ninny as Mrs. Langbein any to
beat her, I'd say, 'Go ahead! Never mind _us!_' But you couldn't pound
sense inter a softy like her, no matter what you done. In the first
place, she lets that fella get away from her evenin's when, if she'd an
ounce o' sense, she could keep him stickin' so close at home, a capcine
plaster wouldn't be in it. Then, when he comes home, a little the worse
for wear, she ups an' reproaches 'm, which, God knows, that ain't no
time to argue with a man. You don't want to _argue_ with a fella when
he's so. You just want to _tell_m'. Tell'm with the help of a broomstick
if you want to, but _tell'_m, or leave'm alone. An' it's bad for the
childern--all this is--it's bad for Cora an' Francie. What idea'll they
get o' the holy estate o' matrimony, I should like to know? That the
_man_ has the upper hand? That's a _nice_ notion for a girl to grow up
with, nowadays. Hark! My, but he's givin' it to her good an' plenty this
time! Sammy Slawson, shame on ye, man! to let a poor woman be beat like
that, an' never raise a hand to save your own childern from bein' old