“Her rockers were broken,” says the Q. M.
“You’re a liar,” says the coolie-clad lady.
At this the Quartermaster makes a hasty retreat and the coolie-clad lady leaves to take the next train to Culebra.
Next comes a quiet little lady with a soft voice and engaging manners, who says that she would like to move into the pretty cottage across the street from her house. The Quartermaster has vanished with a hurt heart, and his assistant has taken his place, with a keen edge on for business for crisp females. “What’s the trouble?” he asks, with a terrifying squint in his eye.
“Oh, my gracious! It will be impossible for me to live in the house with my neighbors.”
“Why, what’s the matter with ’em?”
“They are simply impossible. I cannot endure them. The woman hangs her clothes on the front porch to dry, and I feel horribly ashamed whenever my friends come; and it is extremely disagreeable to walk in and out under them.”
“Well,” says the assistant, “the lady must hang her clothes where they’ll dry. Is that all?”
“The woman is horribly insulting, and refers to me as Mrs. Penpusher. I shall have to move into the little cottage, I fear.”
“That’s a good, cool house that you’re in, and them people are first class.”