“Jew Peter!”
She mistook his exclamation. “Well, you just try it yourself. Sometime, when you’re just a-dyin’ for a smoke, just you hold the thought that you are smokin’, and see if it’s easy.”
He looked at her a few minutes reflectively before speaking. Was Maria losing all her humor? He had been noticing a tendency to dictate, a growing dogmatism. Jew Peter! Like her mother! How he had dreaded the corpulent and dogmatic Mrs. Mathes, whom he had learned to respect at a distance, a very complete distance! He had loved Maria not only for herself, but for the dissimilarity to her mother. Come to think of it, matronhood, middle-aged matronhood, brought dictatorial authority with the dreaded double chin. On every hand, one sees young girls and gaiety. Does the gaiety go with the girlhood? He stole a distrustful look at Mrs. Busby. He had not heard her laugh or crack a joke for a long while. He felt cheated, as though he had bought a piece of goods that did not wear well.
“Maria Busby,” he said solemnly, “when it’s time for me to take to holdin’ thoughts, it’ll be time for me to quit holdin’ anything. Now, what I’ve always liked about you was that you were not eternally meddlin’ and fussin’ like other men’s wives. You’ve minded your own business. That’s what I liked. Keep to it. I don’t care what new fad you pick up. Pick ’em all up. Only don’t force ’em down other folks’ throats. That’s what I could never understand in women. They can never do anything alone. If they find a new medicine, they’ve got to make some one else try it. They love company so much that they want to carry some one along to the other side if the drug happens to be fatal. That’s all I can make out of it.”
“Sam,” Mrs. Busby’s voice was tremulously earnest, “this is so wonderful. You aren’t willing to let me help you with it?”
“Am I needin’ help?” His sturdy rotund body deflected her missionary zeal for an instant.
“You might be sick.” She yearned to protect his unguarded body with the shining wonderful armor she had discovered. She could not be happy in this new religion with her Sam stalking alone outside in the black terrors of the night. She began to realize why religion demands its martyrs. She sighed deeply.
“What’s the matter? Feelin’ poorly?”
“Oh, no. I’m all right. It’s you.”
“Oh, I’m poorly, am I? Well, if this is feelin’ poorly, I’d be afraid to feel well. Something would bust.” He shook such a vigorous repudiation that the mares took it as a command, and several miles had flown past before he had them calmed.