Ebenezer Wopp was the last silent word in patient masculinity, but his face, becoming darker with his work, would lead an onlooker to believe that sinister thoughts were struggling to find expression.
However, the stove-pipe was at last cleaned and ready to put up. Moses’ moroseness had by now developed into a complaint, the chief symptoms of which were sniffling and coughing.
“I got an orful cold, goin’ in an’ out so orften,” he complained.
“A dose of senner tea’ll fix that, my boy,” was Mrs. Wopp’s cheerful rejoinder.
What really ailed Moses was the prospect of bolstering up the pipes again.
“Here, Mose, hoi’ this here jint while I fit the next one inter it.” A tongue-twisting silence ensued.
“Now, Mose, fer the elbow. Stiddy! Don’t shove! Don’t pull! Hole her stiddy!”
“Glory be! It’s pulled apart at the other end!” ejaculated the perspiring assistant.
“Try agin, Mose, now not too hard! Easy like! There! Jest a leetle bit more! Stop! Hold on! Shucks! Everythink’s went wrong! Here, we’ll start agin.”
The work went on, each length at the first possible opportunity resuming its state of strict neutrality and refusing to be drawn into negotiations.