“What kin I do for you?” says she. “Don’t hurry. Eat them cakes and don’t try to talk till you’re done. You might strangle,” says she.
“Mis’ Strubber,” says Mark, “I’ve heard some argimint in Wicksville over these t-t-two wimmin’s clubs—the Circle,” he says, “and the Home Culturers.”
“A-hum!” says Mrs. Strubber, drawing herself up like a rooster looking for trouble—not a banty rooster. No, sir, one of them great big Barred Rocks.
“Yes,” he says, “there’s some t-talk, and I figger it ought to be s-settled once for all. ’Course most folks agrees that you’re the smartest woman the’ is, but a few hain’t got sense enough to own up to it. But quite a few f-folks is divided over which of the two clubs is the brainiest, and which does the m-most good here, and all that. Now, for me, there hain’t any doubt at all. But it ought to be s-s-settled, and I f-figger the Wicksville Trumpet ought to t-take a hand, it bein’ literature, kind of.”
“A-hum!” says she, scowling as black as a pail of axle grease.
“So,” says he, “I got to t-thinkin’ it over,” he says, “and it l-l-looked like the public demanded that question should get settled once for all. Now, if you kin see your way clear to come in with me, the Trumpet’ll announce a contest between the clubs, and the thing’ll be decided forever. Not only,” says he, “as to b-brains, but as to c-cookin’.”
“If them Home Culturers,” says Mrs. Strubber, “got the nerve,” she says, “to come into a contest ag’in’ us, I guess we got the self-respect to give ’em the come-down that’s due ’em.”
“Good,” says Mark. “I f-figgered you’d think that way.”
“What kind of a contest?” says she.
“Sev’ral kinds,” says he, “endin’ with a big display of all kinds of cookin’, and two nights with big dinners, one to be served by each club. There’ll be the argimint contest, and it’s always p-practical results that shows there, hain’t it, Mis’ Strubber?”