“You’re gittin’ to be wusser’n a quill-pig to live with,” Simon flung back. “I don’t git more’n two decent words out of you from one day’s end to another. I ain’t no husk door-mat for you to wipe your feet on, even if I am poor and you’ve got your old forty thousand in the bank.”
“You go ahead with your readin’,” barked Hiram, slapping open a letter. “You want to get so that you can unpin that mouth o’ your’n without saying forty thousand dollars ev’ry time, or I may stick my fist down your gullet some day.”
The giant read on sullenly.
“‘Messers. Look & Peak————-’”
“‘Gentlemen Sirs!’” thundered Hiram. “Ain’t I told you more’n five hundred times how to read that? We ain’t ‘Messers.’”
Peak surveyed the tyrant with baleful gaze and started to read again.
While they were absorbed in their quarrel a woman had come tip-toeing up the street past the muddy spots, and now she stood in front of the porch—a thin, wiry, alert woman. Her voice startled them. She tripped a few steps nearer and curtsied with extravagant politeness. Both arose and doffed their plug hats before they saw her face. She tossed her head to throw back a draggly plume that rested against her rouged cheek and stared at them.
“You don’t hold your ages as well as I do, boys,” she commented flippantly.
“It’s the old army game, gents,” squalled the parrot from his cage overhead, excited by this new arrival, gay in colours and ribbons.
“It’s her!” gasped Hiram.