“Is that so? Well, who is it he learns such talk from, sauce-box?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure,” said I. “But I should like the cabbages right away.”
No, she hadn’t any cabbages, she said; they all rotted and she was sick and tired of the whole business, and, anyway, she sold no cabbages to persons who called her Karl Johan nicknames.
“Do you call Julius Cæsar, and Gustavus Adolphus and Clodevig nicknames, Mrs. Polby?” I asked.
“Heathen names and dog names we have no use for in this country,” she said, “and you can go your way for you’ll get no cabbages from me. Tell your mother so, with my compliments.”
With that she went into a little closet at the back of the shanty, and slammed the door after her. Probably she slammed it a little harder than she really meant to, (for she was in a temper, you know,) and the lock caught. At the same moment the key tumbled out of the keyhole, and fell down through a crack in the floor, vanishing in the depth below.
“The key fell through a crack, Mrs. Polby,” I called.
Mrs. Polby fumbled at the door, took hold of it and pulled and pushed till the whole house shook.
“Will you unlock this door and do it at once?” she shouted.
“I can’t unlock it. The key fell through a crack and under the floor,” I shouted back.