“Jem!”
“Here, I’m a-coming, arn’t I?” he cried, giving the door a thump with his fist. “Don’t shout the ware’us down!”
“Jem!”
“Now did you ever hear such a aggrawatin’ woman?” cried Jem. “She’s such a little un that I could pick her up, same as you do a kitten, Mas’ Don—nothing on her as you may say; but the works as is inside her is that strong that I’m ’fraid of her.”
“Jem!”
He opened the door with a rush.
“Ya–a–a–as!” he roared; “don’t you know as Mas’ Don arn’t gone?”
Little Mrs Wimble, who was coming fiercely up, flounced round, and the wind of her skirts whirled up a dust of scraps of matting and cooper’s chips as she went back to the cottage.
“See that, Mas’ Don? Now you think you’ve all the trouble in the world on your shoulders, but look at me. Talk about a woman’s temper turning the milk sour in a house. Why, just now there’s about three hundred hogsheads o’ sugar in our ware’us—two hundred and ninety-three, and four damages not quite full, which is as good as saying three hundred—see the books whether I arn’t right. Well, Mas’ Don, I tell you for the truth that I quite frights it—I do, indeed—as she’ll turn all that there sweetness into sour varjus ’fore she’s done. Going, sir?”
“Yes, Jem, I’m going—home,” said Don; and then to himself, “Ah, I wish I had a home.”