“You know that scheme I told you about last night?”
“Which one?” Mrs. Toomey searched her memory.
“Don’t you ever listen when I talk to you?”
“I was so sleepy,” apologetically.
“That one to ‘glom’ all the land between Willow Creek and the mountain.”
“Oh, yes,” vaguely. “Couldn’t you interest anybody?”
“How can you interest clods who have no imagination?”
“What did they say about it?”
“Scales told me to go out and hold my head under the spout and he’d pump on it. If ever I get a dollar ahead to pay my fine, I’m going to work that son-of-a-gun over.”
Mrs. Toomey sobered. The flippancy of the grocer was additional evidence that her husband was considered a light-weight, even in Prouty. It hurt her inexpressibly. The desire to work her surprise to a dramatic climax suddenly left her. She said quietly: