“Yes, you were thoughtless,” Obadiah grumbled. “You must learn to think of others. Don’t get teary. That always disturbs me.”
Virginia was engaged in a battle to keep back her tears when the notes of a ragtime melody resounded through the calm of the Sabbath evening. Ike approached. The gorgeousness of his apparel eliminated every variety of lily, except the tiger, from consideration. His suit was of electric blue. His shirt was white, broadly striped with royal purple, and it peeped modestly from beneath a tie of crimson. His hat was straw, decorated with a sash of more tints than the bow of promise.
Ike was happy. He had loitered through the afternoon before the meeting house of his faith, impressing the brethren and the sisters with the magnificence of his attire. He deemed it, socially speaking, to have been a perfect day.
It was now his intention to partake of refreshment before returning again into the shadow of the sacred edifice, not then, however, to give pleasure to the faithful in general, but rather for the special and particular delight of an amber hued maiden who at the moment held his flitting fancy.
Filled with pleasant anticipations and in cadence with his melody, Ike approached the house.
Obadiah arose hastily as the sweet tones struck his ear and awaited the arrival of the musical one at the edge of the porch.
At the sight of the gaunt form of the manufacturer, a dulcet timbre departed from Ike’s performance and as he approached, the volume of sound diminished in proportion to the square of the distance. Opposite the mill owner it ceased.
“Good evening Misto Dale.” The voice was humbly courteous.
Disdaining the kindly salutation of his hireling, Obadiah made outcry. “I want the car. Get the car,” he commanded.
Ike halted.