“She’s layin’ down—got a headache with the heat.”
Nathan looked up with such sparkling intelligence that Miss Tribbey was forced to reduce him by a look. So he obliterated all expression from his face and fell to his supper with a gusto.
“Well, I declare,” said the old man; “she must be terrible bad if she couldn’t stay up for Mr. Martin’s first meal with us.”
“Oh, you mustn’t mind me,” said Sidney hastily, “and I do wish you would call me something a little more familiar than ‘Mr. Martin.’ My father always called me Sid.”
“Sid you are, then,” said old Lansing heartily; “it’s mighty handy, that name. If there’s anything I hate it’s a name a mile long. Nothing like a short name for a dog or a person, I say. For horses and sich it don’t matter much, but when you want t’ call a dog there’s nothing like a good plain name.” The old man ran on garrulously, now and then arresting himself to say the others were quiet. Considering that their quietude was somewhat compulsory, as he talked all the time, it was rather astonishing he found it food for comment.
“Well—M’bella do miss considerable,” he said; “she’s always got something to say, M’bella has. Sometimes ’taint over-wise, but it’s always well-meaning. M’bella ain’t one of your bristle-tongued women. I tell you I’ve known women with rougher tongues than a cat’s.”
“Men’s tongues is a good deal like dogs’, I notice,” said Miss Temperance scathingly—“that long they can’t keep ’em between their teeth. Mighty loose hung, men’s tongues is.”
“When is the Special Meeting, father?” asked Vashti. Sidney thought how gratefully her soft voice sounded across the strident tones of her father and Temperance.
“Wednesday night,” he answered. “You’ll go, Sid? And you’ll be there, Lansing?” The last words were spoken in a tone which challenged denial. But Lanty was in a mood of Quakerish peace. He simply nodded. Old Lansing looked very pleased.
“Special meeting!” said Sidney. “What for? What sort of meeting?”