measuring. "Jane, what's off!" "Why, your boots, to be sure,"
replied the petulant woman, losing patience; "I pulled them off when
you first lay down."

Again the prostrate gentleman was still. Then when the candle of the
waking housewife had burned low down to the socket, and the wasted
flame on the hearth was expiring bluely in convulsive leaps, the
head of the family resumed: "Jane, who said anything about boots?"

There was no reply. Apparently none was expected, for the man
immediately rose, lengthened himself out like a telescope, and
continued: "Jane, I must have smothered that brat, and I'm 'fernal
sorry!"

"What brat?" asked the wife, becoming interested.

"Why, ours-our little Isaac. I saw you put 'im in bed last week, and
I've been layin' right onto 'im!"

"What under the sun do you mean?" asked the good wife; "we haven't
any brat, and never had, and his name should not be Isaac if we had.
I believe you are crazy."

The man balanced his bulk rather unsteadily, looked hard into the
eyes of his companion, and triumphantly emitted the following
conundrum: "Jane, look-a-here! If we haven't any brat, what'n
thunder's the use o' bein' married!"

Pending the solution of the momentous problem, its author went out
and searched the night for a whisky-skin.