"From the north side—that's the coldest," interrupted Joe.
"Hush, Joe! No one laughed at you!"
"Laugh! Why, I am sober as an owl."
"Then I'd give him a drink. I wish we could have some goblets: tumblers look so dreadfully old-fashioned. I mean to buy one, at least, some time. He would ask me about myself; and I'd tell him that we were all orphans, and had been very unfortunate, and that our grandmother was old"—
"'Four score and ten of us, poor old maids,—
Four score and ten of us,
Without a penny in our puss,
Poor old maids,'"
sang Joe pathetically, cutting short the purse on account of the rhyme.
"O Joe, you are too bad! I won't tell any more."