Old Mose waggled his head and scowled, and waggled his head some more, and opened his mouth to say something, and shut it again. He had to try three times before he could get out a word.
“Hey!” he yelled, “you lemme be. You git away from me. What’s the matter with these here wimmin? Say! Dinner! Naw, I hain’t goin’ to dinner with nobody. Me set and listen to female gabble! Whoo! You leggo my arms. Hear me? Has this whole consarned town up and went crazy? Eh? Or what?”
Well, right on top of all that three young women came pushing in and rushing up to Old Mose. I knew what they were after—it was votes for School-Principal Pilkins.
“Why, Mr. Miller,” they says all at once, “as soon as we heard you was in town we come right down to see you. How be you? My! it seems nice to see you again!”
“Come right down to see me, did you?” Old Mose was about as mad as he could get by this time. “Well, now you’ve saw me. Here I be from boots to bald spot. I’m well. But I’m gettin’ worse. I’m gettin’ worse quick. In a minnit I’m goin’ to git vi’lent.” He backed off and got around the end of the counter where nobody could reach him. “Keep off’n me, the whole dod-gasted passel of you. I hain’t no idee of the cause of these goin’s-on, and I hain’t no hankerin’ to find out. But I hereby issues a warnin’ to all and sundry—keep off’n me! I’m a-goin’ to git into my buggy and make for home. I’m a-goin’ to git out of this townful of lunatics. When I come ag’in I’m a-goin’ to fetch my dawg. He’s the meanest dawg in the county. And I’m a-goin’ to sic him on to the first man, woman, or child that comes gabblin’ and flitterin’ around me. Take warnin’. Now git out of my way, for I’m a-comin’.”
At that he began waving his arms and started pell-mell for the door. The folks opened up a way for him and he scooted through like the way was greased. Just a second he stopped in the door to shake his fist. Then he made a jump into his buggy, whipped up his horse, and went tearing for home.
Mark Tidd had stood watching the whole thing as solemn as an undertaker’s sign. Not even a little twinkle in his eye! When Mose was gone he says:
“Don’t seem like Old Mose was in g-good humor to-day.”
“He’s a rip-roarin’, cross-grained, pig-headed, rat-minded old coot,” says Mrs. Peterson, “but I’m a-goin’ to git them votes of his’n yet.”
“Think you be, do you?” snapped Mrs. Bloom. “Well, Mis’ Peterson, you’ll have to git up earlier in the mornin’ than you do on wash-days if you beat me. So there.”