The president laid the letter down. “Ladies, I never was so humiliated in all my life! That our First Church——”
“Madam President,” interrupted an incisive voice, “I should like to know who packed that barrel.”
A woman in the second row turned upon her.
“I packed that barrel.” It was as categorical as question and answer anent Cock Robin. “I am willing to take my share of the blame—and no more. I put into that barrel exactly what was sent in, and—as our treasurer has most justly remarked—a disbursing agent can do no more.”
“I haven’t said that she might not do less,” interpolated the treasurer. “If I had been attending to that job I should have packed most of those things into the furnace—or back to the owners.”
All parliamentary procedure was now cast to the winds. They talked when and to whom they pleased.
“I had no right to do anything of the kind,” defended the packer. “And I had no reason to assume that you would send me trash to pack.”
“That’s right, too!” came a voice from the back.
“I will give a word of explanation, Madam President, and then I am through—with this barrel and all others.”
“Oh, no!” soothed the president; “you’ll pack another one for us sometime and we will do better.”