"
Children! Well, one knew where one was with children--real children.
But men, that was a different pair of shoes altogether--something you
could never be sure of--unless you remembered, always remembered, to
treat them as though they were grown-up, think of them as children.
"Now you taeke that an' get along back to yer friends an' yer playin',
and let me get on with my work. It'll be dark an' tea-time on us afore
ever I've time ter so much as turn round."
"That woman," said the fat, shining man, as they moved away down the
street, greasy with river-mist.--"Hang it all! where in the world are
we to get a taxi?--Common-place little thing; a bit of a drag on him, I
should think."
"Don't you believe it, my friend--that's the sort to give 'em--some'un
who will sort of dry-nurse 'em--feed em--mind 'em. That's the wife for
a genius. The only sort of wife--mark my word for it."
THE DEVIL TO PAY
By MAX PEMBERTON
(From _The Story-Teller_)
1922
To say that the usually amiable Ambrose Cleaver was in the devil of a
temper would be merely to echo the words of his confidential clerk,
John, who, looking through the glass partition between their offices,
confessed to James, the office boy, that he had not seen such goings on
since old Ambrose, the founder of the firm, was gathered to his
fathers.
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