Free L L Frank Baum by The Woggle-Bug Book Page B

his fatigue, he flew after
her at once, crying out:
    "Stop, my variegated dear—stop! Don't you know you're mine?"
    But she slammed the door in his face, and he sat down upon the steps
and wiped his forehead with his pink handkerchief and fanned himself
with his hat and tried to think what he should do next.
    Presently a very angry man came out of the house. He had a revolver in
one hand and a carving-knife in the other.
    "What do you mean by insulting my wife?" he demanded.
    "Was that your wife?" asked the Woggle-Bug, in meek astonishment.
    "Of course it is my wife," answered the man.
    "Oh, I didn't know," said the insect, rather humbled. "But I'll give
you seven ninety-three for her. That's all she's worth, you know; for I
saw it marked on the tag."
    The man gave a roar of rage and jumped into the air with the intention
of falling on the Woggle-Bug and hurting him with the knife and pistol.
But the Woggle-Bug was suddenly in a hurry, and didn't wait to be
jumped on. Indeed, he ran so very fast that the man was content to let
him go, especially as the pistol wasn't loaded and the carving-knife
was as dull as such knives usually are.
    But his wife had conceived a great dislike for the Wagnerian check
costume that had won for her the Woggle-Bug's admiration. "I'll never
wear it again!" she said to her husband, when he came in and told her
that the Woggle-Bug was gone.
    "Then," he replied, "you'd better give it to Bridget; for she's been
bothering me about her wages lately, and the present will keep her
quite for a month longer."
    So she called Bridget and presented her with the dress, and the
delighted servant decided to wear it that night to Mickey Schwartz's
ball.
    Now the poor Woggle-Bug, finding his affection scorned, was feeling
very blue and unhappy that evening, When he walked out, dressed (among
other things) in a purple-striped shirt, with a yellow necktie and
pea-green gloves, he looked a great deal more cheerful than he really
was. He had put on another hat, for the Woggle-Bug had a superstition
that to change his hat was to change his luck, and luck seemed to have
overlooked the fact that he was in existence.
    The hat may really have altered his fortunes, as the Insect shortly met
Ikey Swanson, who gave him a ticket to Mickey Schwartz's ball; for
Ikey's clean dickey had not come home from the laundry, and so he could
not go himself.
    The Woggle-Bug, thinking to distract his mind from his dreams of love,
attended the hall, and the first thing he saw as he entered the room
was Bridget clothed in that same gorgeous gown of Wagnerian plaid that
had so fascinated his bugly heart.
    The dear Bridget had added to her charms by putting seven full-blown
imitation roses and three second-hand ostrich-plumes in her red hair;
so that her entire person glowed like a sunset in June.
    The Woggle-bug was enraptured; and, although the divine Bridget was
waltzing with Fritzie Casey, the Insect rushed to her side and, seizing
her with all his four arms at once, cried out in his truly educated
Bostonian way:
    "Oh, my superlative conglomeration of beauty! I have found you at
last!"
    Bridget uttered a shriek, and Fritzie Casey doubled two fists that
looked like tombstones, and advanced upon the intruder.
    Still embracing the plaid costume with two arms, the Woggle-Bug tipped
Mr. Casey over with the other two. But Bridget made a bound and landed
with her broad heel, which supported 180 pounds, firmly upon the
Insect's toes. He gave a yelp of pain and promptly released the lady,
and a moment later he found himself flat upon the floor with a dozen of
the dancers piled upon him—all of whom were pummeling each other with
much pleasure and a firm conviction that the diversion had been planned
for their special amusement.
    But the Woggle-Bug had the strength of many men, and when he flopped
the big wings that were concealed by the tails of his coat, the
gentlemen resting upon him were scattered like autumn leaves in a gust
of wind.
    The Insect