Perplexed and
angry, he looked around for his wife, and then, opening the back-door,
stood gaping with astonishment. The wife of his bosom, who should have
had a bright fire and a good breakfast waiting for him, was sitting on a
box in the sunshine, elbows on knees and puffing laboriously at a
cigarette.
"Susan!" he exclaimed.
Mrs. Porter turned, and, puffing out her lips, blew an immense volume of
smoke. "Halloa!" she said, carelessly.
"Wot--wot does this mean?" demanded her husband.
Mrs. Porter smiled with conscious pride. "I made it come out of my nose
just now," she replied. "At least, some of it did, and I swallowed the
rest. Will it hurt me?"
"Where's my breakfast?" inquired the other, hotly. "Why ain't the
kitchen-fire alight? Wot do you think you're doing of?"
"I'm not doing anything," said his wife, with an aggrieved air. "I'm on
strike."
Mr. Porter reeled against the door-post. "Wot!" he stammered. "On
strike? Nonsense! You can't be."
"O, yes, I can," retorted Mrs. Porter, closing one eye and ministering to
it hastily with the corner of her apron.
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