Lute tossed her blond head defiantly, glanced at her comrades in
solicitation of support, and said:

"Oh, I don't know. It seems humanly reasonable that the three of us
can woman-handle a mere man of your elderly and insulting avoirdupois.
What do you say, girls? Let's rush him. He's not a minute under forty,
and he has an aneurism. Yes, and though loath to divulge family
secrets, he's got Meniere's Disease."

Ernestine, a small but robust blonde of eighteen, sprang from the
piano and joined her two comrades in a raid on the cushions of the
deep window seats. Side by side, a cushion in each hand, and with
proper distance between them cannily established for the swinging of
the cushions, they advanced upon the foe.

Forrest prepared for battle, then held up his hand for parley.

"'Fraid cat!" they taunted, in several at first, and then in chorus.

He shook his head emphatically.

"Just for that, and for all the rest of your insolences, the three of
you are going to get yours. All the wrongs of a lifetime are rising
now in my brain in a dazzling brightness. I shall go Berserk in a
moment. But first, and I speak as an agriculturist, and I address
myself to you, Lute, in all humility, in heaven's name what is
Meniere's Disease? Do sheep catch it?"

"Meniere's Disease is," Lute began,... "is what you've got. Sheep are