“I said d-u-m, Mrs. Betty; I never say nothin’ worse than that—’cept when I lose my temper,” he added, safely, examining first the hone and then the edge of the scythe, as if intending to sharpen it.
“I AIN’T A CHICKEN NO MORE, MRS. BETTY, AND I’VE ’MOST FORGOT HOW TO DO A BIT OF COURTIN’”
Hepsey had gone into the house to inspect for herself the thoroughness of Mary McGuire’s operations; Betty thought the opportunity favorable for certain counsels.
“The trouble with you is you shouldn’t be living alone, like this, Jonathan. You have all the disadvantages of a house, and none of the pleasures of a home.”
“Yes,” he responded, yawning, “it’s true enough; but I ’aint a chicken no more, Mrs. Betty, and I’ve ’most forgot how to do a bit of courtin’. What with cleanin’ up, and puttin’ on your Sunday clothes, and goin’ to the barber’s, and gettin’ a good ready, it’s a considerable effort for an old man like me.”
“People don’t want to see your clothes; they want to see you. If you feel obliged to, you can send your Sunday clothes around some day and let her look at them once for all. Keeping young is largely a matter of looking after your digestion and getting plenty of sleep. Its all foolishness for you to talk about growing old. Why, you are in the prime of life.”
“Hm! Yes. And why don’t you tell me that I look real handsome, and that the girls are all crazy for me. You’re an awful jollier, Mrs. Betty, though I’ll admit that a little jollyin’ does me a powerful lot 142 of good now and then. I sometimes like to believe things I know to a certainty ’aint true, if they make me feel good.”