“Cooled off? That I sha’n’t never be no more; not while I’ve got to cook for all creation.”
“Mother Mercy, Mother Mercy! You are a puzzler. You won’t let the people go anywhere else than to your house as long as there’s room to squeeze another body in; and——”
“Ain’t it the tavern?”
“Of course. But people who keep taverns usually take pay for entertaining their guests.”
“Gaspar Keith! You say that to me, after the raisin’ I gave you? The idee! When not a blessed soul of the lot has got a cent to bless himself with.”
“But I have cents, plenty of them; and I want you to let me bear this expense for you. I insist upon it.”
“Well, lad, I always did think you was a little too sharp after the money. But I didn’t ’low you’d begrudge folks their blessings, too.”
“Blessings? Aren’t you complaining about so much hard work, and haven’t you the right? I know that no private family has cared for so many as you have, and——”
“Oh, do drop that! I tell you I ain’t a private family; I’m a tavern. Oh! I don’t know what I am nor what I’m sayin’. I—I reckon I’m clean beat and tuckered out.”