The widow rushed to the window and shook her fist at four young Soopendykes who were disporting themselves in the hay wagon, leaping about among the fragrant stuff, and pitching it at one another, to the great detriment of Hamish’s neat load.
“Where is Mrs. Soopendyke?” inquired Mr. Dacre, as the widow finished shooing—or imagined she had done so—the invading youngsters from their play.
“Lyin’ down with a headache,” was the rejoinder. “Poor woman, them young ’uns be a handful, an’ no mistake.”
As Mrs. Bijur seemed inclined to enlarge on her troubles, Mr. Dacre lost no time, as soon as he could do so, in explaining his errand.
“Meat!” exclaimed Mrs. Bijur. “Good land, go daown cellar and help yourself. The boys can give me some of those nice fresh fish in trade some time. No, you won’t pay me, Mr. Dacre. Dear suz, ain’t we neighbors, and—— Land o’ Gosh-en!”
The last words came from the good lady in a perfect shriek. And well they might, for her speech had been interrupted by a heavy sound that shook the house to its foundations.
Bo-o-o-o-m!
“Good heavens!” cried Mr. Dacre, rushing out of the door, followed by the boys. “An explosion!”
“That thar dratted explosive soup of the perfusser’s has gone off at last!” shrieked the widow, following them in most undignified haste. As they emerged from the house, a shrill cry rang out:
“Ma-ma! Oh, ma-ma!”