"Dis yer," he said to himself, with a contemptuous inclination toward the newly-arrived, "will be for eating like a judgment, I 'pose. Wish, now, I had killed de old gobbler! Good enough for him—raal tough, he is. Dis yer, now, was my primest chicken, and dar she'll jist sit and see him eat it! Laws, dese yer women! Why, dey does get so sot on husbands! Pity they couldn't have something like to be sot on! It jist riles me to see him gobbling down everything, and she a-looking on! Well, here goes," said he, depositing the frying-pan over the coals, in which the chicken was soon fizzling. Drawing out the table, Tiff prepared it for supper. Soon coffee was steaming over the fire, and corn-dodgers baking in the ashes. Meanwhile, John Cripps was busy explaining to his wife the celebrated wares that had so much raised his spirits.
"Well, now, you see, Sue, this yer time I've been up to Raleigh; and I met a fellow there, coming from New York, or New Orleans, or some of them northern states."
"New Orleans isn't a northern state," humbly interposed his wife, "is it?"
"Well, New something! Who the devil cares? Don't you be interrupting me, you Suse!"
Could Cripps have seen the vengeful look which Tiff gave him over the spectacles at this moment, he might have trembled for his supper. But, innocent of this, he proceeded with his story.
"You see, this yer fellow had a case of bonnets just the height of the fashion. They come from Paris, the capital of Europe; and he sold them to me for a mere song. Ah, you ought to see 'em! I'm going to get 'em out. Tiff, hold the candle, here." And Tiff held the burning torch with an air of grim scepticism and disgust, while Cripps hammered and wrenched the top boards off, and displayed to view a portentous array of bonnets, apparently of every obsolete style and fashion of the last fifty years.
"Dem's fust rate for scare-crows, anyhow!" muttered Tiff.
"Now, what," said Cripps,—"Sue, what do you think I gave for these?"
"I don't know," said she, faintly.