suit her. Oh, of course," he added hastily, "I know, and Martha knows
that Thomkins wasn't at all that kind of a fool. And yet, after
all--when you really settle right down to think about it, Thomkins'
name was easily 'Tommy,' and Thursday sure enough was his day in New
Haven, and it was a yard of red flannel that Martha had asked him to
bring home to her--not the scarlet automobile veil that they found in
his pocket. But 'Martha,' I says, of course, 'Martha, it sure does
beat all how we fellows that travel round so much in cars and trains
are always and forever picking up automobile veils--dozens of them,
_dozens_--red, blue, pink, yellow--why, I wouldn't wonder if my wife
had as many as thirty-four tucked away in her top bureau drawer!'--'I
wouldn't wonder,' says Martha, stooping lower and lower over
Thomkins's blue cotton shirt that she's trying to cut down into
rompers for the baby. 'And, Martha,' I says, 'that letter is just a
joke. One of the boys sure put it up on him!'--'Why, of course,' says
Martha, with her mouth all puckered up crooked, as though a kid had
stitched it on the machine. 'Why, of course! How dared you think--'"

Forking one bushy eyebrow, the Salesman turned and stared quizzically
off into space.

"But all the samey, just between you and I," he continued judicially,
"all the samey, I'll wager you anything you name that it ain't just
death that's pulling Martha down day by day, and night by night,
limper and lanker and clumsier-footed. Martha's got a sore thought.
That's what ails her. And God help the crittur with a sore thought!
God help anybody who's got any one single, solitary sick idea that
keeps thinking on top of itself, over and over and over, boring into
the past, bumping into the future, fussing, fretting, eternally
festering. Gee! Compared to it, a tight shoe is easy slippers, and