“Why, we’re the laughing stock of the whole town,” she replied. “Those men over there in the bachelor quarters are laughing to kill themselves, and making all kinds of jokes at our expense. Adelaide is an awful girl to bring this ridicule upon us.”
Just then the young widow and two of the girls burst in. “Isn’t that a disgraceful exhibition?” questioned one of them. “Why, one of those awful men asked me who owned them, and then all the others laughed. I’m ashamed to pass by them on the way to the office this afternoon.”
Having now a hint at the cause of the tempest, I took a good look through the window at the clothes-line—and, lo! there burst upon my view an array of faded khaki trousers, gingham shirts and balbriggan undergarments—all in an advanced state of patches—merrily dancing to the light tropical zephyrs which filled them and caused them to act in quite a human manner.
“Did you ever see anything so disgusting?” asked the young widow. Of course, I tried to make light, and suggested to the ladies a picture of Aunt Patience patiently patching the offensive garments, but they shook their heads in disgust and chided me for my levity. Adelaide was called in and requested to take the horrid things from the line. She listened to what the ladies had to say, and then, without replying, turned to leave the room.
“If the clothing was not so terribly patched it would not seem so vulgar,” said one of the girls.
“I cannot imagine anyone of refinement caring for a man who could wear such rags,” said the younger widow. “My husband never wore anything but silk.”
Adelaide heard the comments in silence and quietly left the room.
“I am going to complain about this,” said the young widow.
“You had better use the telephone,” said some one. “You can say more that way.”
She dashed down to the telephone and the following dialogue took place, afterward repeated to me by a friend: