“Mis’ Strubber’s president of the Circle,” says I, “and Mis’ Bobbin’s president of the Home Culturers.”
“We’ll go s-s-see ’em,” says he. “We’ll give ’em all the lit’ry and all the culture they kin use in a month of Sundays.”
So he dragged me off to Mrs. Strubber’s house. Mrs. Strubber is one of them big women; not fat, you know, but big. I calc’late she’s more ’n six feet high, and she could lift a barrel of sugar without turning a hair. But she’s smart. Everybody says so, and she don’t deny it herself. Most of the fellows are sort of scairt of her, but Mark didn’t seem to be much afraid, for he marched right up to her door and rang the bell.
She came to the door, with her sleeves rolled up, wiping her hands on her apron, and when I see how strong those arms looked I sort of edged back so as to have the steps convenient if she didn’t act pleased to see us.
“Well, boys?” says she in a voice perty near as big as she was.
“Mis’ S-s-strubber,” says Mark, “we’ve come to ask some advice from you. Everybody says you’re the smartest woman in this t-t-town, so we wouldn’t go to anybody else with an important t-thing like this.”
Well, you should have seen her grin. My! but she was tickled. “Come right in,” says she. “I was jest in the middle of a batch of fried-cakes, but I calc’late Milly kin finish ’em up. Like fresh fried-cakes?” says she.
“Not g-gen’ally,” says Mark, “but I’ve heard a lot about yourn. Folks says they melt in your mouth.”
“A-hum!” says Mrs. Strubber, perducing some of them fried-cakes. “You’re a onusual p’lite young man, Mark Tidd. I wisht other boys would pattern after you.”
“Yas’m,” says Mark, his mouth full of fried-cake.