As he sneezed and coughed, and watered at the eyes, he muttered, “This is the time of all others that I feel the lack of Betsy Jane or a loving wife.”
There was the sound of a foot on the narrow stairs, and Jake Ruggles appeared, his hair still damp from his morning ablutions and his face as clean as his muddy complexion would permit.
“’Mornin’, boss.”
“Good morning, my lad.”
“Chops?”
“Chops and repentance,” said the goldsmith.
“Whatyer givin’ us?” asked Jake, indignant. “Who’s takin’ any repentance this morning?—not me, you bet.”
“There’s a game called Euchre, Jake—never play it. There is likewise a game called Kitty, which is worse. You can lose more money in one night at one of these games than you can earn in six months.”
“Speak f’yerself,” said the irreverent Jake. “I own I wasn’t at a temp’rance meetin’ las’ night, but I was in bed long before you come home.”
“I was attending a sick friend,” said Benjamin, dishing up the chops. “I confess I was kept out a little late.”