The wind had risen to a gale and she thought nervously of fringed napkins and pillow slips—the wind always gave her the “blues” anyway, and now it reminded her of winter, which was close, with its bitter cold—of snow driven across trackless wastes, of gaunt predatory animals, of cattle and horses starving in draws and gulches, and all the other things which winter meant in that barren country. She slept after a time, to find the next morning that the wind still howled and the fringe on her laundry was all she had pictured.
Toomey set forth gaily immediately after breakfast with the punch bowl wrapped in a newspaper, and Mrs. Toomey nerved herself to negotiate for the sale of the teapot to Mrs. Sudds, in the event of his being unsuccessful.
She watched for his return eagerly, but it was two o’clock before she saw him coming, leaning against the wind and clasping the punch bowl to his bosom. Her heart sank, for his face told her the result without asking.
Toomey set Uncle Jasper’s wedding gift upon the dining room table with disrespectful violence.
“You must be crazy to think I could sell that in Prouty! You should have known better!”
“Didn’t anybody want it, Jap?” Mrs. Toomey asked timidly.
“Want it?” angrily. “‘Tinhorn’ thought it was some kind of a tony cuspidor, and a round-up cook offered me a dollar and a half for it to set bread sponge in.”
“Never mind,” soothingly, “I’m sure Mrs. Sudds will take the teapot.”
“We can’t live all winter on a teapot,” he answered gloomily.
“But you’re sure to get into something pretty quick now.”