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Show THE CODE FULLY EXPLAINED. "My dear," said Mrs. Spoopendyke, examining the baby's feet critically, to see if they were both alike, "my dear, I see that one of the strikers, or capital, has been hurt; do you know the facts about it?" "How hurt? what did it say?" asked Mr. Spoopendyke, turning from the glass and strapping his razor. "I don't remember exactly, but he went down to a slaughter-house to get something for his family and somebody shot him in the legs." "That's the way it happened was it?" demanded Mr. Spoopendyke, grinning through his lather. "He didn't go to his family for a pair of legs and somebody shot him in the slaughter-house, did he? Nor he didn't go down to his legs for a slaughter house, and somebody shot him in the family! That wasn't the way it read, was it?" "No-o-o, I think not," replied Mrs. Spoopendyke, dubiously. "I'm sure it was something about a slaughter-house and legs. Do you know how it happened?" "Yes, I know how it happened," mocked Spoopendyke, pegging away at his visage with the razor. "If I hadn't found out away from home I'd always been puzzled about it, though. Two gentlemen fought a duel, and one got shot. That's all there is to it." "I knew ther'd be some trouble as soon as I read about those strikes," confidently continued Mrs. Spoopendyke. "What's the strike to do with it?" vociferated Mr. Spoopendyke. "Think he struck for another shot? Got a notion he struck for more legs, haven't ye? It would not have been a bad idea, that," soliloquized Mr. Spoopendyke, rather impressed with the combined originality and utility of that class of strike. "Did he get shot in both legs?" queried Mrs. Spoopendyke. "It must have been a cannon ball, or else he held his legs in front of each other." "That's the way he did it," moaned Mr. Spoopendyke. "They always do that. When they are fighting a duel they sit down like a tailor or a Turk. What d'ye think they fight with, forts? Got some kind of vague idea that they fight with line of battle ships? Who said anything about cannon balls? Pistols, I tell ye! They fought with pistols, and one of them hit the other! Roll that information around in your ten-acre intelligence!" "Certainly," faltered Mrs. Spoopendyke. "But tell me, dear, why should one man shoot another for going to the slaughter house?" "Holy herring!" ejaculated Mr. Spoopendyke. "He went there to get shot. It was agreed upon. The man who shot him had reflected on his honor, and he want there to satisfy it." "And did it satisfy his honor to shoot him in the legs?" asked Mrs. Spoopendyke. "That was as near as he could get to it. I tell you that when a man fights a duel he wipes out an insult, whether he gets shot in the legs or the ear. It makes no difference." "I should think it would," murmured Mrs. Spoopendyke. "It would to me. So his honor is all right now, is it?" "Of course it is," replied Spoopendyke, wiping his face. "Suppose you can reason on the subject without any further information from me?" "I guess so," ruminated Mrs. Spoopendyke. "As I understand it, if a man's honor is hurt all he's got to do is to get shot in the legs, though I don't see why he didn't shoot himself, unless it was that he couldn't reach round." "That's just the reason!" roared Mr. Spoopendyke. "He shot at himself in the looking-glass all the morning, and couldn't make it work, so he hired a man to do it for him! It took your shot-tower intellect to see into it! What you want now is a squint in one eye and some dodgasted friends to interfere to be a revised edition of the measly code! If you only had somebody to chalk off six paces on you and a squad of police with a bench warrant, you'd be a regular Bladensburg! I'm going out to fight a duel and got shot! Think you'd understand it then? If I had a bullet through both legs, would you want any more information?" "No, dear," sighed Mrs. Spoopendyke, and as her husband tossed his shaving brush into the baby's crib and slammed out the door, she began to think that a man shouldn't keep his honor in his legs if they couldn't take better care of it.-Brooklyn Eagle. |