A rolling pin is considered a more or less fearsome weapon in the hands
of a woman, I believe; when wielded by an incensed man who stands close
to six feet and weighs a solid two hundred pounds, and who has the
headache which follows inevitably in the wake of three pints of whisky
administered internally in the short space of three hours or so, a
rolling-pin should justly be classed with deadly weapons.
Jim said afterward that he never had believed it possible to act out the
rough stuff of the silly supplements in the Sunday papers, but after
seeing Mose perform with that rolling-pin, he was willing to call every
edition of the "funny papers" realistic to a degree. Since it was Jim
who helped pull Mose off, naturally he felt qualified to judge. Jim told
Ford about the affair with sober face and eyes that laughed.
"And where's Dick?" Ford asked him, without committing himself upon the
justice of the chastisement.
"Gone to bed, I believe. He didn't come out with anything worse than
bumps, I guess--but what I saw of them are sure peaches; or maybe
Italian prunes would hit them off closer; they're a fine purple shade.
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