“Now, don’t you weep like that,” said Philo Gubb soothingly. “You go and ask him. I’ll have my things ready for my immediate departure onto the case by the time you get back.”
Nan hurried away, and Philo Gubb waited only to count the money he had so far received. It amounted to fifty-five dollars. He slipped it into his pocket and stood up on the stepladder. He had even proceeded so far as to put one foot on a lower step, when Mrs. Wilmerton entered the kitchen.
She was a stout woman, and she was almost out of breath. She had to stand a minute before she could speak, but as she stood she made gestures with her hands, as if that much of her delivery could be given, at any rate, and the words might catch up with their appropriate gestures if they could.
“Mister Gubb! Mister Gubb!” she gasped. “Oh, this is terrible! Terrible! Miss Turner should never have dared it! Oh, my breath! Do you—do you know where the beer is?”
“I wouldn’t advise you to take beer for shortness of the breath,” said Philo Gubb. “Just rest a minute.”
“But,” gasped poor Mrs. Wilmerton, “I told Miss Turner it was folly! She’s so stubborn! Ah—h! I thought I’d never get a full breath again as long as I lived. How can we get rid of the beer?”
SHE MADE GESTURES WITH HER HANDS