"She ain't."
Frankie Bell, a stout young man, lifted himself slowly. "Yes, she is. My mother says so."
"Well, your mudda id a liar."
One rush and Frankie Bell lay sprawling with his head in the cushioned softness of his own dirt-heap. The attack had taken him so much by surprise that he went down before he could bellow. Before he could bellow his enemy was upon him, filling his mouth with the materials collected for architectural purposes. Victor in the fray, Tom Coburn ran homeward blinded with his tears.
He found his mother at the stove, stirring something with a tablespoon.
"Mudda, you're not crazy, are you?"
His reply was a blow on the head with the spoon. The woman was beside herself.
"Who said that?"
Rubbing his head, he told her.