"Dog my cats if I know!" was the reply, as the man took another mouthful. "It tastes somethin' like puddin'—an' custard—an' cake—an' like the smell of ol' Mis' Madden's vanilla bean,—an'—" but just then the questioner was given an opportunity to taste for himself, after which he said:—
"It beats the smell o' my darter's hair-ile—beats it all holler."
"I reckon," said Caleb, who had inspected the freezer on its arrival, and had been wildly curious as to its product, "I reckon it's ice-cream."
"What? That stuff that there's jokes about in the newspapers sometimes,—jokes about gals that's too thin-waisted to hug, but can eat barl's of it?"
"Yes; that's the stuff."
"The dickens! Well, ef I was a gal, I'd let out tucks all day long an' durn the expense, if my feller'd fill my bread-basket with stuff like that. Must be frightful costly, though."
"Not more'n plain custard, Mis' Somerton says."
"Wh-a-a-a-a-at? Say, Caleb, I'm goin' to j'in the church, right straight off. No more takin' any risks o' hell for me, thank you, for it stands to reason that they can't make ice-cream down there."
When the contents of the freezer were exhausted, Philip, who never smoked, opened a box of fine cigars which he had ordered from the East, with a view to business with visiting lawyers in the approaching "Court-week." Then the joy of the veterans was complete; the windows were opened, for, as Caleb said, no mosquito would venture into such a cloud, and it was not until midnight that any one thought to ask the time.
"I'm afeared," said Caleb, after all the other guests had departed, "that you'll have a mighty big job o' dish-washin' to-morrow, but—"