“Wha’ makes ’em move that way?” asked she of no one in particular.
“Why, they’re not dead yet,” I answered.
“An’ come all the way from New York?”
“Why, Minerva, these were caught in the brook down there in the valley. Weren’t they, Bert?”
“Yes, sir. Ketched all five inside an hour.”
Minerva’s eyes opened wider. “What’s a nower?” asked she.
Bert looked puzzled and so did Ethel, but I was able to explain and somehow the explanation struck Minerva as being very funny. She went off into a fit of laughter just like those she had had on the train when the cat howled.
“Inside a nower. That’s one awn me. Inside an hour.”
Ordinarily one does not go into the kitchen and provide amusement for the cook, but the events of the past few hours had so altered the complexion of things that I felt distinctly elated at having, in however humble a way, ministered to the joy of one as leaden hearted as Minerva and her laughter was so unctious, once it had got fairly started that first the Dalton boy, then Ethel, and at last I joined in and the east wind must have been astonished at his lack of power over our temperaments.
After the laughter had subsided and Bert had gone on his way with the precious letter to G. W. C. Lee, I was about to leave the kitchen, forgetful of my errand, when Minerva, in a tone of delightful camaraderie, said,