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Literary Lapses
·
Stephen Leacock
95
"Hold
on,
now,
hold
on!"
the
man
said,
"I've
got
one
of
the
cursed
things
in
here
somewhere.
I
guess
it
must
be
in
with
my
watch.
No,
it's
not
there
either.
Wait
till
I
try
my
coat.
If
that
confounded
tailor
only
knew
enough
to
make
a
pocket
so
that
a
man
could
get
at
it!"
He
was
getting
pretty
well
worked
up
now.
He
had
thrown
down
his
walking-stick
and
was
plunging
at
his
pockets
with
his
teeth
set.
"It's
that
cursed
young
boy
of
mine,"
he
hissed;
"this
comes
of
his
fooling
in
my
pockets.
By
Gad!
perhaps
I
won't
warm
him
up
when
I
get
home.
Say,
I'll
bet
that
it's
in
my
hip-pocket.
You
just
hold
up
the
tail
of
my
overcoat
a
second
till
I...."
"No,
no,"
I
protested
again,
"please
don't
take
all
this
trouble,
it
really
doesn't
matter.
I'm
sure
you
needn't
take
off
your
overcoat,
and
oh,
pray
don't
throw
away
your
letters
and
things
in
the
snow
like
that,
and
tear
out
your
pockets
by
the
roots!
Please,
please
don't
trample
over
your
overcoat
and
put
your
feet
through
the
parcels.
I
do
hate
to
hear
you
swearing
at
your
little
boy,
with
that
peculiar
whine
in
your
voice.
Don't--please
don't
tear
your
clothes
so
savagely."
Suddenly
the
man
gave
a
grunt
of
exultation,
and
drew
his
hand
up
from
inside
the
lining
of
his
coat.
"I've
got
it,"
he
cried.
"Here
you
are!"
Then
he
brought
it
out
under
the
light.
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