[He comes down from the stepladder. He and Yardsley go out. The pictures are piled up on the floor, the furniture is topsy-turvy, and the portières lie in a heap on the hearth.
Enter Mrs. Perkins.
Mrs. Perkins. Dear, dear, dear! What a mess! And poor Thaddeus! I’m glad he wasn’t hurt; but I—I’m afraid I heard him say words I never heard him say before when Mr. Barlow let the table slip. Wish I hadn’t said anything about the table.
Enter Mrs. Bradley.
Mrs. Bradley. These men will drive me crazy. They are making more fuss carrying that laundry table up-stairs than if it were a house; and the worst of it is our husbands are losing their tempers.
Mrs. Perkins. Well, I don’t wonder. It must be awfully trying to have a laundry table fall on you.
Mrs. Bradley. Oh, Thaddeus is angelic, but Edward is absolutely inexcusable. He swore a minute ago, and it sounded particularly profane because he had a screw and a picture-hook in his mouth.
Yardsley (outside). It’s almost as heavy as the piano. I don’t see why, either.
[The four men appear at the door, staggering under the weight of the laundry table.
Perkins (as they set it down). Whew! That’s what I call work. What makes this thing so heavy?