Uncle Ike grinned to himself and says:
“We men has figgered the contest is narrowed down to Chet and Chancy. ’Tain’t likely anybody will enter agin ’em, is it, Mis’ Bloom?”
Mrs. Bloom sniffed. “I thought this was goin’ to be a contest for the handsomest man,” says she. “If ’tis, neither of them whipper-snappers is eligible. Let ’em wait till they git their growth. For a handsome man gimme somebody that’s old enough to wash his own face without his mother’s helpin’ him. The best-lookin’ time in a man’s life is when he’s about forty-three.”
“Forty-seven, to be exact,” says Mrs. Peterson, her eyes snapping.
“Forty-three,” says Mrs. Bloom. “Forty-three is Peter Bloom’s age, and I ought to know. When I was young I could ’a’ had the pick of the young fellers in this town, but I took Peter, and hain’t never regretted it. I guess you folks hain’t seen Peter in his new Sunday suit, or you wouldn’t be talkin’ about these—these gangleshanks.”
Mrs. Peterson blinked and swallowed hard and opened her mouth a couple of times before she could speak.
“If you was to stand Peter Bloom alongside of Jason Peterson,” says she, in a voice that sounded like somebody tearing a piece of tin, “I guess you’d change your mind. Maybe Peter was fair-lookin’ once,” says she, “but Jason’s been eatin’ good cookin’ for twenty-two year—and that tells.”
Uncle Ike winked to himself and says, sober-like, “It looks, fellers, as if Chet and Chancy wasn’t goin’ to have the field to themselves.”
“No, they hain’t,” says Mrs. Bloom, “and I’m goin’ right in now to spend a dollar—a dollar—and vote ten votes for Peter. There.” She jerked her head and turned on her heel and marched into the store.
“Gimme that pair of scissors I was lookin’ at the other day,” says she, “and a paper of pins, and six spools of forty white thread, and if that don’t make up a dollar just say so.”