“Pearsterme, my girl, you can't add,” said Mr. Korner.
“I—I was always considered rather good at arithmetic, as a girl,” stammered Mrs. Korner.
“What you mayabeen as a girl, and what—twenner-seven and nine?” fiercely questioned Mr. Korner.
“Thirty-eight—seven,” commenced to blunder the terrified Mrs. Korner.
“Know your nine tables or don't you?” thundered Mr. Korner.
“I used to,” sobbed Mrs. Korner.
“Say it,” commanded Mr. Korner.
“Nine times one are nine,” sobbed the poor little woman, “nine times two—”
“Goron,” said Mr. Korner sternly.
She went on steadily, in a low monotone, broken by stifled sobs. The dreary rhythm of the repetition may possibly have assisted. As she mentioned fearfully that nine times eleven were ninety-nine, Miss Greene pointed stealthily toward the table. Mrs. Korner, glancing up fearfully, saw that the eyes of her lord and master were closed; heard the rising snore that issued from his head, resting between the empty beer-jug and the cruet stand.