"I remember you," said Miss Butterworth, peering up into his face to read his features in the dim light. "You are Jim Fenton, whom I met last spring at the town meeting."
"I knowed you'd remember me. Women allers does. Be'n purty chirk this summer?"
"Very well, I thank you, sir," and Miss Butterworth dropped a courtesy, and then, sitting down, she pointed him to a chair.
Jim laid his cap on the floor, placed his roll of cloth upright between his knees, and, pulling out his bandana handkerchief, wiped his perspiring face.
"I've brung a little job fur ye," said Jim.
"Oh, I can't do it," said Miss Butterworth at once. "I'm crowded to death with work. It's a hurrying time of year."
"Yes, I knowed that, but this is a pertickler job."
"Oh, they are all particular jobs," responded Miss Butterworth, shaking her head.
"But this is a job fur pertickler folks."
"Folks are all alike to me," said Miss Butterworth, sharply.