sort of trowel, and looking irresolutely at a cabbage?"

Then, after a pause, she said with a beautiful irrelevancy:

"What was it Mr. Hood did that you said he couldn't do?"

But these are tales of topsy-turvydom even in the sense that they have to be told tail-foremost. And he who would know the answer to that question must deliver himself up to the intolerable tedium of reading the story of The Improbable Success of Mr. Owen Hood, and an interval must be allowed him before such torments are renewed.