"I know," he said bitterly. "I'm a beast when my temper gets beyond control, but Phares can be so confounded irritating, he rubs salt in your cuts every time."
"Just for healing," the mother said gently.
"David," said Phœbe, "I guess the temper is a little bit of that Irish showing up."
At that David smiled, then laughed.
"Phœbe," he said, "you know how to rub people the right way. If ever I have the blues you are just the right medicine."
"I don't want to be called medicine," she said with a shake of her head.
"Not even a sugar pill?" asked Mother Bab.
"No. I don't like the sound of pill."
David looked across at the preacher, who stood silent and helpless in the swift tide of conversation. "You may be right, Phares. It may be the wrath of Providence upon the tobacco. I'll try alfalfa in that field next and then I'll rub Aladdin's lamp. I'll make some money then!"
"Where do you find Aladdin's lamp?" asked Phœbe.