So in they clumped. The room was as neat as wax. There was a long counter with a row of stools in front of it, and several signs—“Home Coffee,” “Home Bread,” “Home Doughnuts,” “Home Apple Pie,” “We Are Ladies. Please Be Gentlemen,” “Remember Your Mother, Boys.”
A woman in a blue checkered gingham dress was tacking shiny white oilcloth upon the counter. That was a part of the hammering. She had her back turned, and hadn’t heard them enter.
“Please, ma’am, may we get breakfast here?” Terry asked.
Whew, how good that room smelled!
“Why, I think I can accommodate you,” the woman answered, speaking through the tacks between her lips. “We can give you something—we’re just opening up——” and she took her tacks out and raised her head, to face them.
“Anything that’s homey, ma’am,” pleaded George. “We——”
But Terry fairly screeched.
“Ma! Jiminy whillikens! Say—aren’t you my mother?”
“Why, Terry Richards! What are you doing here?”
“What are you doing here?” retorted Terry, as they rushed together and hugged.