“ ‘Don’t you think you c’d stan’ it a little longer?’ I says. ‘Mebbe they’ve sent home fer their clo’es,’ I says. He, he, he, he! But with that she jest give a hump to start, an’ I see she meant bus’nis. When Polly Bixbee,” said David impressively, “puts that foot o’ her’n down somethin’s got to sqush, an’ don’t you fergit it.” Mrs. Bixbee made no acknowledgment of this tribute to her strength of character. John looked at David.
“Yes,” he said, with a solemn bend of the head, as if in answer to a question, “I squshed. I says to her, ‘All right. Don’t make no disturbance more’n you c’n help, an’ jes’ put your hank’chif up to your nose ’s if you had the nosebleed,’ an’ we squeezed out of the seats, an’ sneaked up the aisle, an’ by the time we got out into the entry I guess my face was as red as Polly’s. It couldn’t ’a’ ben no redder,” he added.
“You got a putty fair color as a gen’ral thing,” remarked Mrs. Bixbee dryly.
“Yes, ma’am; yes, ma’am, I expect that’s so,” he assented, “but I got an extry coat o’ tan follerin’ you out o’ that theater. When we got out into the entry one o’ them fellers that stands ’round steps up to me an’ says, ‘Ain’t your ma feelin’ well?’ he says. ‘Her feelin’s has ben a trifle rumpled up,’ I says, ‘an’ that gen’ally brings on the nosebleed,’ an’ then,” said David, looking over Mrs. Bixbee’s head, “the feller went an’ leaned up agin the wall.”
“David Harum!” exclaimed Mrs. Bixbee, “that’s a downright lie. You never spoke to a soul, an’—an’—ev’rybody knows ’t I ain’t more ’n four years older ’n you be.”
“Wa’al, you see, Polly,” her brother replied in a smooth tone of measureless aggravation, “the feller wa’n’t acquainted with us, an’ he only went by appearances.”
Aunt Polly appealed to John: “Ain’t he enough to—to—I d’ know what?”
“I really don’t see how you live with him,” said John, laughing.
Mrs. Cullom’s face wore a faint smile, as if she were conscious that something amusing was going on, but was not quite sure what. The widow took things seriously for the most part, poor soul.
“I reckon you haven’t followed theater-goin’ much after that,” she said to her hostess.
“No, ma’am,” Mrs. Bixbee replied with emphasis, “you better believe I hain’t. I hain’t never thought of it sence without tinglin’ all over. I believe,” she asserted, “that David ’d ’a’ stayed the thing out if it hadn’t ben fer me; but as true ’s you live, Cynthy Cullom, I was so ’shamed at the little ’t I did see that when I come to go to bed I took my clo’es off in the dark.”
David threw back his head and roared with laughter. Mrs. Bixbee looked at him with unmixed scorn. “If I couldn’t help makin’ a—” she began, “I’d—”
“Oh, Lord! Polly,” David broke in, “be sure ’n wrap up when you go out. If you sh’d ketch cold an’ your sense o’ the ridic’lous sh’d strike in you’d be a dead-’n’-goner sure.” This was treated with the silent contempt which it deserved, and David fell upon his dinner with the remark that “he guessed he’d better make up fer lost time,” though as a matter of fact while he had done most of the talking he had by no means suspended another function of his mouth while so engaged.
For a time nothing more was said which did not relate to the replenishment of plates, glasses, and cups. Finally David cleaned up his plate with his knife blade and a piece of bread, and pushed it away with a sigh of fullness, mentally echoed by John.
“I feel ’s if a child could play with me,” he remarked. “What’s comin’ now, Polly?”
“The’s a mince pie, an’ Injun puddin’ with maple sugar an’ cream, an’ ice cream,” she replied.
“Mercy on us!” he exclaimed. “I guess I’ll have to go an’ jump up an’ down on the verandy. How do you feel, John? I s’pose you got so used to them things at the Eagle ’t you won’t have no stomach fer ’em, eh? Wa’al, fetch ’em along. May ’s well die fer the ole sheep ’s the lamb, but, Polly Bixbee, if you’ve got designs on my life, I may ’s well tell ye right now ’t I’ve left all my prop’ty to the Institution fer Disappinted Hoss Swappers.”
“That’s putty near next o’ kin, ain’t it?” was the unexpected rejoinder of the injured Polly.
“Wa’al, scat my ⸻!” exclaimed David, hugely amused, “if Polly Bixbee hain’t made a joke! You’ll git yourself into the almanic, Polly, fust thing you know.” Sairy brought in the pie and then the pudding.
“John,” said David, “if you’ve got a pencil an’ a piece o’ paper handy I’d like to have ye take down a few of my last words ’fore we proceed to the pie an’ puddin’ bus’nis. Any more ‘hoss-redish’ in that bottle?” holding out his glass. “Hi! hi! that’s enough. You take the rest on’t,” which John did, nothing loath.
David ate his pie in silence, but before he made up his mind to attack the pudding, which was his favorite confection, he gave an audible chuckle, which elicited Mrs. Bixbee’s notice.
“What you gigglin’ ’bout now?” she asked.
David laughed. “I was thinkin’ of somethin’ I heard up to Purse’s last night,” he said as he covered his pudding with the thick cream sauce. “Amri Shapless has ben gittin’ married.”
“Wa’al, I declare!” she exclaimed. “That ole shack! Who in creation could he git to take him?”
“Lize Annis is the lucky woman,” replied David with a grin.
“Wa’al, if that don’t beat all!” said Mrs. Bixbee, throwing up her hands, and even from Mrs. Cullom was drawn a “Well, I never!”
“Fact,” said David, “they was married yestidy forenoon. Squire Parker done the job. Dominie White wouldn’t have nothin’
